Shaping The Spirit
by broadhands
Summary: Another installment in the 'En Pointe' narrative arc, parallel to 'Oversway' and following on from 'By The Numbers'. The story of Sharon the incredibly foul-mouthed Avatar. WARNING - if you are offended by frequent coarse language, do not read.
1. Chapter 1

"Hey, Sharon!" yelled Corporal Linda Paklowski. "What are you doing?"

"None of your fucking business," answered Sharon good-naturedly. The Avatar was examining a large block of what looked like expanded polyurethane foam. Actually, she wasn't examining it – Sharon was almost meditating upon it, using it as a focus for soothing her soul.

"No, seriously, Sharon," said Paklowski. "I really want to know." She made a sweeping gesture around the Hell's Gate maintenance hangar. "I can't see why you would be inside when it's such a great day."

"Why the fuck would I be outside, when all there is to do is mooch around the base like some feckless shithead," growled Trooper Sharon King. "I'm a chicken strangler, not a fucking cunt of a roachie. If I wasn't doing this," she gestured towards the block of foam," I'd be gonking for the fucking Olympics."

Paklowski almost went cross-eyed as she attempted to translate the Aussie military slang. Ok, she knew that a chicken strangler was a member of the Australian Special Air Service Regiment, and a roachie was a rear echelon motherfucker, but what the hell was gonking? It sounded obscene – but then every second word from Sharon's mouth tended to be an obscenity.

Sharon continued, "I'm not cracking the sads, but as long as the boss says we're not going to arc-up with the locals, I'd rather not be swept up to do an emu bob parade picking foddies off the asphalt, just to keep the flog-offs happy."

"Jesus Christ, Sharon, are you even speaking English?" objected Paklowski.

"Well, I'm not speaking fucking Mandarin, húli jīng," she responded to her friend.

Paklowski chuckled, "Did you just call me a bitch in Chinese?"

"Yep," agreed Sharon, grinning at her fellow Avatar, who knew very well Sharon was half-Chinese. Or at least she had been, until she volunteered for duty on Pandora and had her personality permanently transferred to her Avatar. Now she was all smurf. Sharon picked up a slim, straight branch she had scavenged the only time she had been out on patrol – in defiance of orders – and sighted down the close-grained timber. It would do very well as a stringer, she thought, after a little work.

"I'm glad I haven't taught you to swear in Na'vi," commented Paklowski. It was strange that such a foul-mouthed individual as Sharon spoke the most lyrical Na'vi she had ever heard.

"Your bad," replied Sharon, not shifting her eyes from the raw piece of timber deadfall.

"So what are you doing?" asked Paklowski.

Sharon looked up from the branch. "I'm looking for the shape inside this shit," she said, using the branch to point at the block of foam.

Paklowski walked away, shaking her head, no more enlightened than when she first asked.

* * *

><p>It might have been point eight of a g on Pandora, thought Sharon, but it still didn't make running with a full combat load any easier. After twenty times around Hell's Gate perimeter in this heat, she was pretty well fucked.<p>

She leaned against one of the lampposts and hydrated, shaking out the last drops of water from her water bottle.

"Soldier!" yelled a voice. It sounded like an officer.

Sharon looked up. Her ears had not deceived her – it was indeed an officer. To be precise, it was Colonel Renshaw, the CO of this dog and pony show.

"Yes, Boss," she replied, drawing herself up to attention. Unlike many of the officers she had encountered during her bumpy career, this one deserved a little respect. Not only that, he was so fucking built he could probably rip off one of her arms and beat her to death with it – without even raising a sweat.

Sometimes Sharon really resented the advantages males had in building up muscle mass. It was so fucking easy for dick swingers. She had to work twice as hard as any of them, just to get the same results. And it was just as hard to build muscle wearing a blue suit as when she had been human.

"At ease," he ordered. "Trooper King, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, relaxing into parade rest. "Everyone calls me Sharon."

He glanced at her sand-coloured beret, only worn by SASR troopers. Anyone else found wearing one would usually be found face-down in a dark alley with their throat cut. "I suppose I could ask why you are training alone out in the midday sun, but I think I already know the answer, Trooper," he said, ignoring the offer of her first name. "You're what the Australians call a door-kicker."

"Yes, sir," she confirmed. "Eight years in the sabre squadrons, usually in search and reconnaissance, but I had eighteen months in counter-terrorism." She grinned happily. "I'm one of T.H.E.M."

"I didn't know the Aussies let women into Special Forces," he commented. "We don't."

"With all due respect, sir," she said, despite the little voice in her head screaming at her to shut up, "You ignorant septics think that cunts are useful only for fucking groundsheets." Never mind that she had been the only female SASR trooper during her entire term of service.

"Is that so?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and ignoring the obscenities, his expression indicating slight disapproval - or perhaps distaste. He had heard the Sec-Ops scuttlebutt that Sharon's normal speech could make a Marine gunny blush – in this case, the rumour-mill was one hundred percent unadulterated truth. But there was a good reason why the legislature had never allowed women into Special Forces. They just weren't as strong as men.

"I could run you into the fucking ground, sir," she dared him. "Right now, as you are."

"I hardly think that's fair," he replied, thinking that this woman had just run twenty laps of the perimeter with full combat load, while he was only carrying his sidearm, and was well rested.

Sharon replied, "You're right, it's not fucking fair. I'll give you thirty seconds head start."

Colonel Renshaw looked into the mad gleam in Trooper King's eyes. She was deadly serious.

* * *

><p>The race went pretty well as expected. After ten laps of the perimeter, Colonel Renshaw had lapped Sharon once, and pulled ahead by half a lap.<p>

And then something incredible happened.

Sharon started running faster.

Fifteen laps later, she had unlapped herself, passing Colonel Renshaw at a fair clip. By this time, a crowd had gathered around the start/finish line that was used for such purposes. Renshaw's uniform was soaked with sweat as he tried to remain in contact with the former SASR trooper. He could feel his legs slowing, no matter what he tried.

Another eight laps saw him walking, when Sharon ran on past him, still maintaining the same punishing pace.

She passed him one more time before he finally walked across the start/finish line. She was only a minute behind him, crossing the line to the cheers of the grunts.

"Thank you sir," she said. "You ran a good race."

Renshaw shook his head in amazement as he shook her offered hand. "You're a machine, Sharon. I would never have believed it."

She grinned at him and asked the question she had been dying to ask him, ever since she had made planet-fall on Pandora. "When are you going to allow women out on patrol, sir? I'm going troppo sitting around on my arse."

"I think I will be revisiting my decision," he said. "It looks like you will be going out on patrol tomorrow."

Sharon nodded with satisfaction at proving her point. "If you'll excuse me sir, I think I'll brass up at the range. I haven't shot my ammo ration off this week."

Colonel Renshaw watched the female trooper walk steadily away towards the rifle range. If all Aussie women had been like Trooper Sharon King, the entire world would be saying 'g'day mate' as their standard greeting.

* * *

><p>As soon as Sharon was out of sight of the CO, she leant her head against a convenient building, and tried to stop from screaming in agony. The muscles in her legs were convulsing into huge knots. For fuck's sake, what had she been trying to prove?<p>

She never quite made it to the range.

* * *

><p>Paklowski found Sharon standing under the shower in her quarters, letting the hot water stream over her smooth blue skin. By the amount of steam flooding the bathroom, she had been there for at least half-an-hour.<p>

"Hi, Linda," said Sharon. She sounded exhausted. "Can you give me a hand out? I can hardly walk."

Shaking her head in amazement, Paklowski helped her friend out of the shower, and rubbed her down with a towel. The knots of muscle in her legs felt harder than steel, at least until Paklowski massaged them out. "I'd swear you would try to beat the guys in a pissing contest, just to see who could get the highest mark on a wall."

Sharon started to giggle. "I did that on my first leave from Swanbourne, after I was frocked as an operator."

Paklowski's mouth dropped open, before she stated, "I suppose you won."

"No," giggled Sharon helplessly. "But I didn't come last." She allowed Paklowski to guide her towards her cot, and collapsed on it face down.

Linda could have sworn that Sharon was asleep before her face hit her pillow.

* * *

><p>After Renshaw walked out the soreness in his legs, he returned to his quarters in the command post, the former Avatar longhouse. Out of curiosity, he opened up Sharon King's personnel jacket. Everything in it confirmed what she had told him – a brace of campaign medals, an awe-inspiring list of disciplinary black marks, two awards for gallantry under fire, wounded three times – the blood drained away from his face as his eyes returned to her gallantry awards. He had been about to discipline her for her failure to salute, when he remembered that Australians were notoriously slack about military courtesy. Renshaw had mentally let her off for that minor infraction, ascribing it to cultural differences.<p>

Trooper Sharon King had a fucking VC.

He read the citation twice before he silently watched the attached holovid. In its way, it was a classic of its kind, showing the heroism of a simple soldier trying to save her mates from being slaughtered by crazed Pakistani jihadis, in the midst of the confusion of battle, and beyond all odds surviving. No, Sharon did more than survive – she tore the jihadis apart.

There was indeed a reason she hadn't saluted him. Sharon had been waiting for him to salute her, as was demanded by military custom and law, to honour the holder of the highest award for gallantry of her nation.

And then he began to laugh.

No doubt she had been waiting for him to – what did the Australians say? That's right, give her a right royal face ripper about not saluting. He bet she would endure the shellacking (another idiosyncratic Australianism) perfectly straight-faced, and then calmly advise him that she was not required to salute any officers, thank you very much sir, three bags full sir.

He would have been left with egg all over his face.

As Renshaw continued laughing he flipped back through the record, and noted her middle initial was 'X'. What was that for, he wondered? Xena the warrior princess, he wagered. It would really suit her.

It turned out that her full name was Sharon Xiùlán King. A couple of clicks opened up a gallery of images, showing a deeply tanned woman with long blonde hair and classical Chinese features, together with a couple of shots of her Avatar.

At this point the skin on the back of his neck started prickling, as sure sign that he was facing imminent danger. Normally, this only happened to Renshaw when he was about to step on a landmine, or enter a perfect killing ground. It usually didn't happen when he was seated at his desk looking at personnel jackets.

Renshaw's eyes scrolled down to the entry for next of kin. The contact was her grandfather, listed as Colonel Zhong Li (ret'd). It was the address details of her next-of-kin that made his eyes perform the impossible feat of standing out on stalks. Sharon's maternal grandfather was the fucking CEO of the Resource Development Administration, the head honcho of the entire RDA – the man who had personally briefed him for this mission.

Now he knew he was being set up.

But the real question was this – was he being set up for failure, or for success?

* * *

><p>Sharon woke up with a start, her heart pounding and skin pouring with sweat. She had virtually ripped her cot apart in her sleep, and for some strange reason her left hand was very firmly gripped between her thighs.<p>

"Shit," she muttered to herself, as she half-remembered vivid dreams of writhing bodies and slick flesh. Perhaps it wasn't strange at all to find her left hand there. "I should exercise the old wanking spanner a bit more."

Her watch said it was four in the morning. Ninety precious minutes of gonking time left, she thought, before she had to get up. The only problem, sleep wouldn't come. Sharon was hot, and restless, and could think of only one thing.

Sex.

"Fuck!" she swore, and then wished she hadn't. Sharon wanted to scream from frustration.

She was as horny as a fucking sultan's seraglio.

Back on Earth, if she felt like this, Sharon would have gone over the wire, found a good looking townie and fucked his brains out, before doing the old AJ fade away, and been back in her wank chariot before reveille.

It wasn't an option for her on Pandora. The locals weren't that friendly, let alone the fact that the smurfs mated for life. No chance there of a fade away back to base. The option of screwing one of the Sec-Ops spangled drongos was even less appealing, not if she was going to have him rusted on for life. Although, mused Sharon, she wouldn't mind the CO stirring the old honeypot on a regular basis. For some reason she bet Renshaw had a pretty sizeable wooden spoon, and he seemed to be a decent bloke for a red tab. After all, unlike most brass hats, he hadn't arced up about her not saluting, even though she hadn't paraded with her fruit salad on.

The only problem was she was sure as dingoes ate babies that Renshaw was a stickler about fraternising with other ranks.

For some reason, she knew that a quiet wank wouldn't solve her problem. That only left one option. Sharon would have to go muff diving. There was nothing in the Avatar manual that said a spot of Dutch canoe rubbing led to lifetime commitment.

Not that Sharon hadn't done it before, when her need had been great, and there wasn't any big timber around.

She wondered if her friend Paklowski was up for it, even though she was half of the only couple on base. The lucky bitch had sole possession of Sergeant Niccolo Vitello, a very tasty piece of long blue meat, and had made it very clear to all the other slits on base that if she found any of them laying a snail trail in front of her old ball and chain, Linda would have their fucking guts for garters.

No-one else came to mind that she really fancied.

Which was why Sharon found herself in the gym at oh-four-fucking-thirty, belting the crap out of an outsized punching bag.

"Youse wanna spar?" asked a thick Brooklyn accent, attached to one of the Q-wallas.

She considered him for a moment – she knew the prick, even if she couldn't remember his name. The bastard had refused to issue her with a double ration of ammo last time she was in the Q-store. Sharon tilted her head from one side to the other, hearing the bones crack. "Why not," she said. Time for a little come-uppance, perhaps. "Full contact?"

"Yeah," replied the quartermaster's bum-boy, supremely confident of holding his own against her.

He looked as though he fancied himself in the ring, warming up and making Rocky type noises, as though he was some kind of reincarnation of Sylvester Stallone. As she donned protective gear – helmet, breast plates, knee and elbow pads, followed finally by gloves, the shithead growled, "Youse need all those?"

"Regulations," she answered shortly. Sharon had more than enough black marks in her jacket to be racking up any more, just for doing something as stupid as not wearing protective gear in the ring. She wasn't a fucking skxawng. Besides, he probably had at least fifty kilos on her.

Sharon slammed the button on the vending machine to get a mouth guard. When the black lump of polymer dropped out, she swore under her breath. Sharon hated fucking liquorice. When she put it in, just like always the warm plastic shifted greasily around her teeth and tongue, releasing the disgusting taste before the mouthguard hardened into the shape of her mouth.

When she got into the ring, she nodded once to her opponent, and started to feel out his defences. Actually, he wasn't that bad, she thought, as she tried a couple of combinations, only landing two or three light blows. It wasn't a grudge match, after all.

Unfortunately, Sharon was mistaken as to her belief regarding the nature of the bout. She blinked once, and a freight train hit her head. The next thing she knew she was lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling.

The shithead spat out his mouthguard and growled, "How d'youse like them apples, girly?" He gave her a feral grin before he reinserted his mouthguard.

Big mistake, fuckwit, she thought, as she hauled herself back on her feet. Sharon shook her brains back into place, nodded again, and the prick started steaming in, throwing combinations in rapid succession, each series designed specifically to remove her head. She backed off, only allowing him to get in one or two glancing blows, waiting for him to get off-balance.

Now!

Sharon slipped under a haymaker, ripping up a left cross into his solar plexus, paralysing his diaphragm. She followed up with an elbow strike directly into the jaw, the power of the blow turning his body around. A solid left to his kidneys then led to a knee in the groin. Somehow, the bastard still was on his feet as she tore into him, forcing him back into the corner, smashing him with punishing body blows and head shots.

She spat out her mouthguard and screamed with rage, landing blow after blow, feeling the cracking of ribs and the splattering of blood from countless punches, blows and strikes, until he was on the ropes. The ratshit bugger still wouldn't drop to the mat where he belonged.

What she didn't realise was that his left arm had wrapped around one of the ropes, holding him up, even though the prick had lost consciousness. Not that she could see that tiny little fact.

Suddenly there was the insistent ringing of a bell. The red haze in front of her eyes wavered, and then started to dissipate. Sharon shook her head to clear it, and stepped away from the bloodied body of her opponent.

Slowly, so very slowly, like a toppling of a forest giant – Sharon had seen holovids of the Fall of Hometree – the prick crashed to the mat in a disgusting spray of blood and drool.

"Well, fuck you, you fucking numpty grot," she snarled. Sharon bent down to pick up her discarded mouthguard, and slipped between the ropes down to the gym floor.

"Holy fuck," said the bloke who had rang the bell, his eyes wide open at the lump of cold meat in the ring. "What the fuck have you done to him?"

"Thanks for ringing the gong, mate," she said, unlacing her gloves. "You'd better call the scab-lifters. I think I did him a bit of harm." When the bloke didn't react, she yelled at him, "Call a fucking medic, shithead."

As the mango ran off to get a turd burglar, Sharon reflected that she was about to get another fucking rocket up her clacker.

* * *

><p>Sharon stood at attention in front of the Colonel's desk, eyes straight ahead, gaze fixed on the wall two feet above his head. She could feel one eye swelling up. No doubt she was going to have a ripper of a shiner in a couple of hours.<p>

Renshaw said in a chilly voice, "Let me get this straight. You sparred without a referee, in direct contravention to regs, and then because your opponent tried to take your head off, you beat him into a pulp."

"Yes, sir," she said. That was about the long, the short and the tall of it.

He nodded. "He'll be in hospital at least a month," stated Renshaw, "If not longer."

"Sorry, sir," replied Sharon. Unwisely, she added, "I lost my temper." Sharon winced inside at her stupidity. She had been dragged up to receive a tongue-lashing on a zillion occasions, and knew better than to say she was sorry.

The CO drummed his fingers on his desk for about thirty seconds, each roll sounding like the drums of hell. "Sorry doesn't cut it, Sharon. You could have killed the fucking idiot."

"Yes, sir," she said, relaxing the tiniest bit. He had called her by her first name. Perhaps she would get out of this one with only a few black marks.

"You're lucky the whole incident was captured on holovid," he said. "If not for that evidence – you were clearly provoked - I would chuck you into solitary and let you stew for a month or so."

"Yes sir," she repeated.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I have to confine you to base, Sharon. I can't afford to take anyone out on patrol who can't control her temper, no matter how good her skills or combat record."

Her shoulders slumped slightly. But he was right. Sharon deserved much worse. What she did to the poor bastard was worthy of a month in the stockade.

"Stay out of trouble, and get some ice on that eye," he added, "Next time, I'll throw the book at you."

"Thank you, sir," she said. It sounded like her interview was over.

"One moment, Sharon, before you go," requested Colonel Renshaw.

"Yes, sir?" she asked, a little surprised.

"There is one thing that is puzzling me," he stated. "Why did you resign from SASR and join RDA Sec-Ops? I've read your record, and despite the number of demerits, I still can't fathom the reasons for your decision."

He must have read her personnel jacket, thought Sharon. There was nothing for it but the truth – perhaps not the whole truth, but the truth nonetheless. "Two reasons, sir," she replied grimly. "After I got the brass gong," referring to her VC, "The red tabs wouldn't let me go back out into the field. They said I was too valuable to risk, and all they would let me do were fucking dog and pony shows, in order to prop up morale. They made me leave my oppos." She bared her teeth. "I fucking hate the fucking media, and the fucking general staff, and most of all I hate the fucking politicians."

He nodded. This same problem occurred in the Marines, whenever some poor bastard got the Medal for doing his job. However, in Sharon's case, he also bet the politicians didn't want to see their only female VC winner brought home in a body bag. "What was the second reason?" he asked.

Sharon shifted her gaze downwards, to look directly into his eyes. "Grandad asked me to volunteer," she answered.

There were two minutes of dead silence, as the two soldiers stared at each other. Finally, Colonel Renshaw shifted in his chair slightly, and said quietly, "Dismissed."

* * *

><p>That was only the beginning of the trouble.<p>

Within two weeks, Hell's Gate was in turmoil. Every female on base appeared to have gone completely nuts. They were causing chaos left, right and centre – dumb insolence to officers and NCOs, inciting fighting between men, cat-fights between the women, even a couple of riots in the commissary.

Colonel Renshaw was left with no choice. He confined every woman to barracks, with the exception of essential personnel, and ordered them to turn in all firearms and weapons.

Suddenly, just over ten percent of his personnel were combat-ineffective. And the men – well, they wouldn't go anywhere near any woman, not if their lives depended on it.

The only woman who appeared to be sane was Corporal Linda Paklowski, one of the two Na'vi language instructors. Then again, she was one half of the only married couple on base. It was that fact which gave him the only clue, and caused him to summon the M.O. to his office.

Renshaw examined the female medico cautiously. She didn't seem proof against the madness gripping the Avatar females either. She was sitting in his visitor's chair, lip curled back from her teeth, and she was growling softly. Renshaw could swear that she had no idea that she was doing any of it.

"What's causing this trouble, Doc?" he asked carefully.

Doctor Sabine Fleischmann twitched suddenly, and her hands flexed convulsively, as if they wanted to rip and tear flesh. "I don't know," she snarled, through a heavy German accent. "There isn't anything about aberrant female behaviour in the Avatar literature."

"Could it be something to do with hormone levels, or lack of sexual activity?" he asked. "Corporal Paklowski doesn't seem to be showing any of the symptoms."

"Are you a fucking doctor?" she screeched. "What the fuck would you know, _jarhead_?" She half rose from her chair, as if she was intending to pounce on him and scratch his eyes out.

"Easy, Doc, easy," he said, his hands held defensively in front of him, gesturing her to calm down. "I did not mean to offer offense, or cast doubt on your expertise."

Slowly, Doctor Fleischmann settled back down into her chair. She twitched again, and said in a very controlled voice, "All females I have examined display elevated temperatures within a small range and localised inflammation of the epidermis, together with intermittent nervous tics, but I can find no other indications of ill-health. Apart from these minor issues, they all seem perfectly healthy." She paused for a moment, adding, "I hypothesize that there is an allergic reaction to some unknown airborne pathogen."

"Is there anything to back up your belief?" he asked.

She sat there for a few moments, a wild glare in her eyes, struggling to maintain control. "I have performed equivalent tests on a random sample of male personnel, and have noted lesser but equivalent symptoms. Slightly raised temperature, nervousness, and in a few cases involuntary tics similar to those being experienced by female personnel."

He nodded. It was clear he wasn't going to get any different advice out of the M.O. Perhaps she was right, and this problem might go away.

"Thank you, Doc," he advised quietly. "That will be all."

As soon as she left, he sighed with relief. Dealing with any of the women at the moment was like juggling bottles of nitro-glycerine. It was worse than any case of über-PMS on record he had ever seen - even worse than his second ex-wife.

He sighed again. If he continued to do nothing, Renshaw doubted that the Hells' Gate garrison would survive another month. That was why he started composing a superluminal message. He needed better advice, even if he had to refer back to Earth. Now.


	2. Chapter 2

If Sharon had not found a tunnel from the women's quarters to the maintenance hangar, she really would have gone troppo.

In her current state of mind, having to stay cooped up with a bunch of bitchy women all on the rag – or whatever the Na'vi equivalent was – would have driven her over the edge. AS far as she was concerned, fucking Renshaw could take his 'confined to barracks' order and shove it where the sun don't shine. Sharon had work to do.

The angus crafties working on the aircraft all knew she was here, tucked away down the back corner, but as long as she was quiet they didn't seem to mind her presence. And this suited Sharon just fine.

She wanted to be left alone.

"So this is where you have been hanging out," commented a voice from over her shoulder.

"Linda, hold on a sec," she advised Paklowski, her voice muffled by the exo-pack she was wearing. "I'll be done in a moment." Sharon smoothly applied the last coat of clear epoxy resin with the spray gun, and switched off the compressor.

"My God!" exclaimed Paklowski. "It's beautiful."

"It's fucking bang on is what it is," replied Sharon proudly, after she removed her exo-pack. The fast-drying epoxy had already set hard, allowing her to run her fingers along her work.

They were admiring a surfboard, beautifully shaped and crafted. But that was not all – it bore a stunning painting of a Na'vi woman, standing on a beach with a surfboard under one arm. She was shading her face with the other hand, looking out to sea – no doubt checking out a distant reef break.

"It was pretty hard to figure out," said Sharon. "The lower gravity screwed up all the usual proportions and buoyancy calculations, so I had to run a few simulations. Even then, I reckon more than likely it'll be a fucking mongrel."

"I didn't know you could paint like this," exclaimed Paklowski. "It's incredible."

Sharon shifted uncomfortably on her feet, clearly ill-at-ease with the praise of her artistic talents. She shrugged, "It's ok, I guess. I've always decorated my own boards. That way, no shit of an oxygen thief'll make off with it."

"It's a shame you won't be able to use it," mused Paklowski, wondering how many surfboards Sharon had made.

"You doing anything tomorrow?" asked Sharon innocently.

Paklowski narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Why?"

* * *

><p>"I can't believe I'm doing this," hissed Paklowski, as they weaved their way through the chopper park in the pre-dawn light.<p>

Sharon chuckled. "The Boss is so sick of us he's gone out on a cash and carry. He won't be back until after dark." She nodded towards the woman wearing a flight suit and helmet. "Kim here has squared up borrowing a Samson – filed an approved flight plan and everything."

"It was a snap," said Kim. "If I don't keep my hours up, I'll lose my rating. We don't have enough pilots as it is." She grinned at Linda. "According to regs I have to fly with a complete crew, including door gunners, even on training flights."

"The chief scablifter invited herself along after she heard Kim chatting up Lieutenant Foster," added Sharon. "Just in case someone comes a cropper."

"Anything to get out of this verdammt hole," growled Sabine.

"Kim saw a fucking awesome point break on her last survey flight along the coast," added Sharon. "There is even a nice little sandy beach, and plenty of room to put down a chopper.

"This is my bird," said Kim proudly, running her hand along the nose of the ugly green aircraft. "Samson Two-One. Isn't she beautiful?"

"All in the eye of the beholder," replied Sharon, who had fastened her board to the tiedown points on the right side of the chopper and tossed her bag into the cargo space. "Linda, take the other jelly-bean dispenser. I'll sort out this fucker." After a quick examination, Sharon was happy the starboard MBS-9M tribarrel was in tip-top condition.

"Doc, you can ride up with me," said Kim as she removed the engine cowl plugs and examined the flight control surfaces for wear.

"Please, call me Sabine," insisted the chief medical officer. "I am not on duty now."

Paklowski's jaw dropped as the other three women stripped off their uniforms to reveal colourful bikinis – colourful and very small bikinis. "What?" she exclaimed. Suddenly, all the multi-coloured ribbons wound into Sharon's hair made sense.

Sharon reached into her bag and tossed her a small package. "Sorry, I forgot," she apologised, a twinkle in her eye. "Here's yours."

"But it's tiny!" objected Paklowski, after ripping it open, finding two scraps of material that wouldn't cover much more than a postage stamp. She felt all hot and cold at the prospect of wearing the offensive garments.

Shrugging, Sharon said, "You have to dress for the mission, otherwise you don't get to come along." She grinned, "Cams don't cut it at the beach."

Swearing under her breath, Paklowski ripped off her boots and uniform, tossing them in Sharon's bag. "I'll get you for this," she snarled as she wriggled into the bikini bottoms.

* * *

><p>The duty officer in the control tower blinked several times and shook his head to see if his brains rattled. "Foster," he asked, "Who's flying Samson Two-One today?"<p>

"Sergeant Kim Tranh," answered Lieutenant Foster. "Training flight. You can have a look at the docket – it's all been cleared."

"I thought all women were confined to base," commented the duty officer.

Foster answered, "We're already short of pilots, sir. She needs to keep her hours up if she is going to stay certified."

"What about the door gunners?"

"Corporal Paklowski and Trooper King," answered the air traffic controller. "The M.O. has gone along for the ride." When the duty officer flicked up an eyebrow at him, Foster asked, "Can you see any male door gunner volunteering to crew for a female pilot?"

"Good point," conceded the duty officer, shuddering slightly. In the last commissary riot before the lockdown he had narrowly avoided a hard-driven knee in the groin, and the scratches from clawing nails had yet to entirely heal.

He only had two questions left, but he wasn't game to ask either of them. He was a little afraid of the answer that he might receive. Was that really a surfboard strapped to the outside of the chopper, and why were the crew all wearing bikinis?

* * *

><p>"Kim, queue the soundtrack," yelled Sharon.<p>

The Samson chopper had swung out to sea, at least five clicks off shore. Kim put the bird into a hard left bank, levelling out only fifty feet above water, heading directly for the cliffs lining the shore. Music boomed out from the external speakers, something loud and bombastic.

"What's the music?" demanded Paklowski. She didn't recognise it, being a shatter rock aficionado.

To her surprise Sabine said "Wagner - Ritt der Walküren. It's traditional for this type of event."

"Yeah," agreed Sharon. "Pity we can't lay down some suppressive fire. Fucking Q-store is tighter than a cherry twat about ammo expenditures." She sighed, but then immediately chirped, "Look at that bitching point break!"

The chopper roared into a small cove, the heavy beat of the blades echoing off the cliff faces surrounding it on all sides. There appeared to be no way down to the beach from the cliff tops, but the low grassed sand dunes between the cliff faces made an almost perfect LZ.

Samson Two-One paused briefly about ten feet above ground, allowing Sharon to make a fast exit. She hit the ground and rolled, protecting her M60 from impacting the ground. Fuck, the sand was hard, she thought, even at point eight of a gravity.

Samson Two-One orbited the beach, allowing Paklowski to cover Sharon while she cleared the dunes between the water and the cliff-face. It didn't take long – there was nowhere to hide, and there were only two ways into this place – by air, or by water.

Sharon's ears were thankful when the chopper blades finally slowed, and the music stopped.

Five minutes later and the chopper was unloaded of weapons, food and drink – Sharon had made sure there was plenty of ice cold liquid. Unfortunately, there was nothing intoxicating to be had in Hell's Gate. Sharon considered this was one of the major disadvantages of permanently transferring her awareness into her smurf suit. She really missed beer. Although, she didn't miss the various aches and pains from eight years service in the squadrons, and hangovers had been getting harder to live through.

"Righto," said Sharon, slinging a shotgun around her torso, and strapping a diver's knife to her left thigh. "One person is on watch, thirty minutes at a time. Linda, you take first, Kim second, I'll take third."

Sabine said, "I'll take fourth watch." When the other three women turned in surprise towards her, not expecting a civilian to share in the load, Sabine shrugged, "I came third in biathlon in the German selection trials for the 'forty-two Winter Olympics. I know how to use a gun."

The Winter Olympics of 2142 were the last to be held outside Antarctica – nowhere else on Earth could rely on having sufficient snow cover to run the outdoor events now.

"It must have pissed you off missing selection," said Kim.

"Not really," replied Sabine with a wry smile. "They cancelled the biathlon for lack of snow - I would never have got to compete anyway." She sighed. "I was seventeen – at the time it seemed like the end of the world."

"Why didn't you try out for the next Olympics?" asked Paklowski curiously.

"I was diagnosed with osteosarcoma on my eighteenth birthday," replied Sabine. "Two days later the surgeons removed my left leg below the knee."

"Fuck,' whispered Sharon. Her sentiment was echoed by the other two women. "That explains why you are here, Doc."

"I think you will find everyone came here because their life was less than perfect," said Sabine.

"Ain't that the truth," said Sharon. She grinned, adding, "Surf's up.'

With that, she grabbed her surfboard and ran out into the waves.

The three women watched Sharon paddle out to the breaking waves. They saw her head bob up and down several times, waiting for the perfect wave.

Kim asked, "Why did Sharon take a shotgun out with her?"

Paklowski said, "She mentioned something about the local fish being on the energetic side."

"You mean like sharks?" continued the pilot.

"I think the average Earth shark would last as long as a goldfish in these waters," commented Paklowski drily.

The pilot blinked several times, trying to absorb this piece of information. "She's a lunatic," said Kim eventually.

"And the sky is blue," replied Sabine calmly. "She knows what she is doing." The German turned to Paklowski and asked, "Linda, what is sex like as an Avatar?"

A small smile appeared on Paklowski's face, while Kim's face suddenly darkened, and she ducked her head to gaze at her feet.

Linda said, "I think I am not the only one here to have mated. Tell her, Kim."

The pilot said very quietly, "It is wonderful. Unbelievable." She paused for several moments, and said, "To know that a man loves you, without reservation...I am so glad I came here, as an Avatar."

"Who is the lucky guy?" asked Sabine. The pilot had broken at least half a dozen regs regarding fraternisation.

"Lieutenant Foster," said Kim. "Sam is wonderful."

"I feel exactly the same about Niccolo," added Paklowski.

Sabine asked, "Are you going to marry him?"

"According to the Na'vi, we already are married," replied Kim. She pointed out to sea. "Look, she's catching a wave."

* * *

><p>Sharon dropped down the wave, adrenaline surging through her veins. She carved the bottom turn perfectly, sensing the power of the wave gathering behind her. A feeling of awe crept over her, that she could be doing this on another world, in another body.<p>

There were no fucking worries about kooks dropping in and snaking her ride – this was her wave, hers alone.

When the wave started to curl over her, narrowing her world to a tiny patch of sky surrounded by green water, she felt her life was complete.

Sharon's spirit was one with the wave, and at peace.

* * *

><p>"Fuck, she's good," said Paklowski admiringly, after they had been watching for almost an hour. She stood up and waved, indicating that it was time for Sharon to come in.<p>

Kim added, "People like Sharon make me feel so inadequate. It's not fair that she is so good at everything she does."

The lone surfer waved back, before she looked back to check the wave rolling in.

Sabine said a little acerbically, "She doesn't speak English particularly well."

Kim tilted her head, considering the medico's words. "You know, I don't think Sharon can really speak English at all."

* * *

><p>Alìmtaw grinned back at his cousin Maweypay. It was good to get away from the strictures of the clan for a day, and just fly their ikran.<p>

Even better was soaring above the cliffs – their ikran hardly had to work at all, the breezes coming off the ocean filling their wings and keeping them in the air.

"What's that?" called out Maweypay, pointing to a shape bobbing in the water, just beyond a point where the water broke.

His eyes narrowed. It was one of the People, sitting on something in the water. Was he in trouble? These waters were dangerous for the unwary – the kxitx'payoang lurked here, preying on the rich fishing grounds, the same fishing grounds that supported his clan, the Ikran People of the Eastern Sea. Alìmtaw blinked his eyes to clear them, and realised it was not a male, but a female.

He shifted his weight, directing his ikran towards the lone figure, so that he could scare away any predators lurking below.

Alìmtaw was surprised when the woman lay down on the thing she floated upon, and start to paddle. His heart almost stopped – she was moving towards the place where the waves crashed. If the woman was caught by such, she would surely be plunged to the bottom of the sea and drowned.

It was with amazement that he saw her fall down the wave on the...whatever it was, and magically stand up, beginning to move faster than the wave, somehow riding it with great skill. How could she be doing such a thing, when such a huge wave could crush and kill others?

He could not take his eyes off this woman, and so did not hear his cousin yelling at him, nor see him waving an arm to attract his attention.

* * *

><p>A shadow swept over Sharon, making her take a quick glance up, before the wave closed in on her. She saw two banshee riders whoosh past her.<p>

Fortunately, the smurf knucks weren't brassing up at her. They would have to wait – she was too busy now to do anything about them now. Sharon would deal with them when she got to shore.


	3. Chapter 3

When the banshees swept over Sharon, the three women grabbed for their weapons. "Don't shoot," hissed Paklowski. "The rules of engagement are clear. We only fire when fired upon."

Colonel Renshaw had not changed the Rules of Engagement, despite the death of three soldiers on patrol three months ago. A single Na'vi warrior – a woman, no less – had penetrated the Hell's Gate perimeter and kidnapped an Avatar. Renshaw sent a patrol to pursue, but they were ambushed by the same woman and lost three of their number.

There had been much disquiet amongst the troops over this incident. Many wanted a shoot on sight policy to be instituted. They conveniently forgot an over-eager soldier opened fire at a banshee rider attempting to land at Hell's Gate, only two days after it had been taken from the previous occupants in a sneak attack.

There had been no contact with the Na'vi since then – well, no visible contact. Many patrols had been attacked by blow darts – non-lethal, fortunately - drugging the unfortunates into insensibility. Renshaw had judged that the Na'vi did not wish to escalate, and threatened anyone who opened fire without sufficient provocation with something called Field Punishment Number One.

No-one had been willing to ask what it entailed.

* * *

><p>"Skxawng, are you blind?" shouted Maweypay, jabbing his free hand at the beach. "They are uniltìranyu!"<p>

Alìmtaw's head swivelled towards the shore line, and he swore. "Wiya!" One of the tawtute flying machines was squatting on the beach, lurking between the low dunes like a lenay'ga. A clan member – a woman and former dreamwalker named Zhess'ika – had been wounded by uniltìranyu only three months ago, without any provocation.

His hands tensed on the harness of his ikran, until he realised two things. Although the three uniltìranyu on the beach were all holding weapons, they were pointed at the ground. It seemed the strangers had no immediate hostile intent.

The second thing was that all the uniltìranyu were women, and that there were four of them. Was this a tsumuke'awsiteng, a gathering of a circle of sisters, even though they were tawtute? For males to disturb such a ceremony was a serious insult. In some clans it would even lead to expulsion of an offending male.

All these thoughts flashed through his awareness, including the fact that the women were not dressed like tawtute. The colourful scraps of cloth they wore were much like the proper dress for a woman, instead of the unclean coverings the tawtute swathed their bodies in.

"We must land, and apologise for disturbing them," he yelled back.

An expression of shock appeared on Maweypay's face, realising what Alìmtaw meant. He nodded, and they banked hard out to sea, before coming back directly into the beach. It did not escape his notice that the women followed their flight closely. It would take but an instant for them to raise their weapons and unleash the tiny tskxe that slew.

It was unfortunate that the cliffs were bare of plant growth. There was no option but to land the ikran on the dunes, meaning there would be no fast departure for them. Ikran had to labour mightily to gain height taking off from flat ground.

* * *

><p>Sharon walked up the beach with her board under her arm, and thrust it into the firm sand, tail first.<p>

"What do we do?" asked Kim nervously. The banshees had landed fifty metres away, at the other end of the small beach.

"The smurfs want a yabber-fest," replied Sharon. "Let's oblige them." She unslung her shotgun, leaning it against the surfboard, and walked calmly towards the two Na'vi males.

"The woman has no fear," muttered Kim.

Paklowski said ironically, "It was surgically removed when Sharon was frocked."

"Frocked?" asked Sabine. "What does this mean?"

"When she became an operator in SASR, the Australian Special Forces," replied Paklowski.

* * *

><p>The woman walked boldy toward them, without fear. The only weapon she carried was a knife scabbarded to her leg. Clearly, she did not wish to fight, but had no intention of submitting to them either.<p>

She made the gesture of greeting and said, "Oel ngati kameie, tsamsiyu. Fyape fko syaw ngar?"

Alìmtaw almost sighed in relief. The woman's voice was strong and fluent, although the rhythms of her speech were strange, almost lyrical. It also did not escape his attention that she was a handsome woman – very handsome, despite the strange cast of her face, and the many fingers on her hands.

"I am Alìmtaw," he replied, "And this is my worthless cousin Maweypay. We are of the Ikran People."

"My name is Sharon te King Xiùlán'ite," she replied courteously, and gestured towards the kunsip. "As you can see, we are uniltìranyu."

Alìmtaw made a slight gesture with one hand. "Forgive my rudeness, but I must ask a question. Aye you a tsumuke'awsiteng?"

* * *

><p>There was a warm glow in Sharon's groin – this long slab of blue smurf was fucking gorgeous. Sharon wanted him, pretty much like she wanted to keep breathing. So she was a little distracted when he asked his question, missing the special intonation of respect he gave the words 'circle of sisters'.<p>

The Na'vi language classes had not covered many of the societal structures of the clans – particularly that of the tsumuke'awsiteng, as Linda Paklowski was fully aware that it involved special women's business, and could only be revealed to those women initiated into the secrets of a clan.

So it seemed only natural for her to reply, "Yes, we are sisters together."

"Then we must beg your pardon for interrupting your peace," he replied. "We will leave you."

"No!" she insisted. She fully intended to gaff this particular fish. "Stay, and have words with us. There is plenty of food and drink to share."

* * *

><p>Alìmtaw hesitated. The offer seemed both warm and generous, without any of the deviousness ascribed to the tawtute. There was another factor - Alìmtaw wanted to know how this woman rode the waves.<p>

He had not acknowledged to himself yet that this woman named Zharr'n was most...alluring.

"Very well," he agreed. "We will stay."

"Come then," she said. "I wish you to meet my sisters." She turned about and walked towards the women near the kunsip. Alìmtaw noticed both the swaying of her hips, and her graceful carriage. A bit more than noticed, actually – he could not tear his eyes away.

* * *

><p>Maweypay whispered, "Do you know what you are doing?"<p>

"Shut up!" he whispered back. "We have been offered hospitality, and must accept."

The names of the other three were not unpleasant, and two of them were most courteous. It was clear that they had been Chosen and mated, and had nothing to fear from two single males. The third, however, the one called Tsa'peen, was definitely not mated.

* * *

><p>Sharon almost burst into laughter when Sabine looked Maweypay in the eye and asked him straight, "Are you mated?"<p>

When he stammered out the negative, Sabine smiled and said, "I would like visit the place of the Ikran People, to come to know Maweypay, only." Maweypay was like a rabbit in the headlights when she reached up to grasp him on the shoulder.

* * *

><p>Alìmtaw jabbed his cousin in the ribs, to get him to make a polite answer. No female had ever expressed an interest in Maweypay before, and by the customs of the People Tsa'peen had most definitely made her claim.<p>

He saw all four women smile at his cousin's nervousness, and he relaxed a little. Perhaps uniltìranyu women were not that different from those of the People.

After they had shared food and drink – the water they gave him was icy cold and sweet, as though it came from one of the fabled mountain streams - Alìmtaw moved towards the thing that Zharr'n had used to ride the wave. From its shape it was someting like a fish, but it was clearly a made thing. What also amazed him was the image on one side, of a beautiful Na'vi woman looking out to sea, carrying a wave-thing under her arm. He looked towards Zharr'n for permission to touch it – for all he knew it might be a sacred object, only to be touched by a woman.

When she nodded, he ran his hand along one edge, and realised that the image of the woman wore the face of Zharr'n. "It is beautiful." He wasn't quite sure if he meant the thing, the image it bore, or the woman he was talking to.

"Irayo," replied Zharr'n, her face darkening slightly with modesty.

"You made this?" he asked, impressed that a tawtute could make a thing of such beauty and grace. Everything he had seen made by tawtute to this time had been brutal, if not ugly, speaking of nothing but power and dominance, and disdain for the spirit of Eywa. This, however, spoke of balance.

"Srane," she said, making a pleased gesture with both hands. "It is something I do." Zharr'n paused to say, "There is much solace to be had in finding the shape of the surfboard."

"So you call this...a surfboard," he said, wrapping his tongue carefully around the tawtute word. It was not easy to say. Zharr'n nodded in agreement. He caressed the surface again. "Of what is it made?"

"Most of the surfboard is made of a foam much like that on a wave, made solid by the tawtute. That makes it light. To protect the foam, there is a hard shell enclosing it, made of a resin."

Alìmtaw knew of no resin that set quite as hard as this material. It must have been another tawtute substance. A little sadly he commented, "So there is nothing of Eywa in the surfboard."

"No," she contradicted him. "In the centre is a shaped piece of a timber called the stringer, made from a branch I found on the forest floor. The grain is close, yet it is supple. This is what gives the surfboard its strength, but not so strong that it will break resisting the force of the wave. Instead the board flexes, bowing to the power of the ocean."

Slowly, he nodded. He had not been mistaken in his belief that the surfboard contained much of the spirit of Eywa. How could something so beautiful not be so? Alìmtaw said softly to himself, "It must be wonderful to ride a wave."

* * *

><p>Sharon grinned, "Would you like me to teach you?"<p>

* * *

><p>Paklowski and Kim sat on the beach, watching Sharon draw pictures in the sand, talking all the while, and making elaborate gestures with both hands. It seemed she was teaching the theory of surfing, and as a consequence corrupting the Na'vilanguage with surfing jargon .<p>

"Where is Sabine?" asked Kim.

Paklowski chuckled, "She disappeared behind the dunes with Maweypay half-an-hour ago. She had a particularly predatory look on her face."

Now Sharon was teaching the art of paddling on the board. The demonstration of Eskimo rolls was particularly amusing, especially when Alìmtaw managed to swallow a mouthful of sand.

"I'm curious, Kim," said Paklowski. "Niccolo and I were married before we joined the expedition. How did you know?"

"How did I know it was Sam, you mean?" replied Kim. "I just knew. Somehow I knew he was the right one for me." There was a pensive look on her face. "Linda, do you ever miss being human?"

She didn't quite know how to answer this question. There were somethings she missed – a few friends left behind on Earth, coffee, chocolate, going to the movies – little things. Well, perhaps chocolate wasn't that small a deal. However, all the things that might have tied her to Earth Pakloswki had already effectively thrown away. She had spent over fifteen years asleep in cryo, travelling between the stars. After her first tour to Pandora, Earth had felt like an alien planet. All her childhood friends had become middle-aged while she was still young, and her parents were _old_, older than she remembered her grandparents.

When Paklowski found that she could not have children as a human, the decision to return to Pandora had been an easy one.

"No," she said slowly. "I don't regret it at all. Why? Do you?"

Kim shook her head. "No, I don't. I just feel... I just feel that I should want to be human again, but I don't. I really don't."

"You haven't said why you signed up, Kim," said Pakloswki.

"Money," the pilot said bluntly. "My parents had lost all their money when their retirement fund was embezzled. I gave them my signing bonus, and assigned my pay to them, so they don't become homeless. I could not bear thinking of them living on the streets." She sighed. "It was easy to do, once I knew that there would be no return from Pandora."

"Didn't they have other children?" asked Paklowski.

"My brothers have selfish wives," she answered.

* * *

><p>"Do you understand everything I have told you?" asked Sharon.<p>

Alìmtaw's head was spinning. "How long have you done this surfing?" he asked, his mind full of new words, and the concepts they belonged to.

"Since I was a child," she replied.

"I wish to know one thing," he said. "Why would the tawtute bring a, um, surfer to this world? It is not something that I can see them doing."

Sharon gave him a hard look, her entire posture and mien suddenly changing, like a squall crossing the ocean. "I am a soldier," she said, using the English word, "A tsamsiyu. That is who I am."

"That is not who I See," said Alìmtaw. "You might have the skills of a warrior, but that is not who you are. Your spirit speaks to me of other things."

A lump rose in Sharon's throat, and for a moment she could not speak. No-one – not a single person...Sharon could not finish the thought.

"Come," she said. "It is time to ride your first wave."

* * *

><p>No-one spoke on the chopper ride back to Hell's Gate.<p>

Something had changed each of the four women, this day on the beach. They all knew it.

It would take just take them some time to believe it.


	4. Chapter 4

"Tsa'peen told me that the uniltìranyu do not have tawtute bodies," said Maweypay. "Unlike the previous uniltìranyu, they gave up their shells before leaving 'Rrta, having already passed through the Eye of Eywa. In this, they are like both Zhake'soolly and Zhess'ika."

Alìmtaw was not really listening to his cousin, thinking of his joy when he managed to 'catch his first wave'. The only thing he could compare it to was first flight. Though it was only a small wave, he felt the power of the ocean propelling him forward. Alìmtaw snorted – first, he had wanted to paddle out to the point break, to ride the waves breaking there, but Zharr'n had told him he must crawl before he ran.

It was well that she had told him, and that he had heeded her warning. Zharr'n had made the surfing of a wave look effortless, a song of balance between her body, the wave and her spirit. It had been surprisingly difficult to ride even the smallest wave, and he fell off the surfboard many times.

He was grateful that Zharr'n had not laughed at his efforts. Instead she smiled, and told him he was doing well, and then told him of his mistakes.

"She is a healer of the tawtute kind," continued Maweypay, speaking of Tsa'peen.

"What?" asked Alìmtaw, distracted by his musing.

His cousin thumped him on the shoulder. "You're not listening," he chuckled. "Are you dreaming of the lovely Zharr'n?"

"No. Yes. I don't know," said Alìmtaw finally.

"What happened to the boy who swore he would never mate?" teased his cousin.

Alìmtaw shook his head, almost angrily. He was not in the mood for teasing and banter. "You are right that I think of Zharr'n. Her spirit is in conflict."

"Conflict?" queried Maweypay, suddenly looking worried. It was not like his normally light-hearted cousin to be so serious.

* * *

><p>Samson Two-One approached Hell's Gate as Alpha Centauri A was dropping below the horizon. Sharon was leaning on the starboard tribarrel, absent-mindedly scuffing the copious amounts of beach sand that had been tracked into the cargo area, thinking it had been a good day. There had not been enough good days in her life.<p>

She shut her eyes for a moment, when suddenly a vision of another chopper ride flashed into her memory. It was not clean white sand filling the floor and sticking to her feet, but a thick red fluid.

* * *

><p>Sharon couldn't hear the incoming fire striking the chopper – the noise of the chopper blades and the chatter of her tribarrel were drowning out every other noise – but she could feel the rush of rounds brushing past her skin and plucking at her gear. "Get us the fuck out of here!" she screamed at the pilot, hosing down everything she could see. The grips of the tribarrel were slippery from the brains of the chopper door gunner – she was standing over his headless body. The unlucky bastard had caught a passion-killer on the flight in.<p>

Suddenly, the bird filled with smoke and started to spiral in. Sharon could hear the alarms from the cockpit, even above the noise of the shuddering engines tearing themselves apart. The pilot said calmly over the comms channel, the way flog-offs did when the shit had really hit the fan, "Brace, brace, brace. We're going in." Sharon did not release her grip on the tribarrel, only flexing her knees to take the hard impact.

The chopper didn't quite crash into the ground. The pilot had done a good job, auto rotating the bird in what the flight manual would call a controlled descent into a hard landing.

It still felt like a fucking crash.

Sharon picked herself up from the floor of the bird, and looked around. The smell of jet fuel was rank in her nostrils, and it looked like she was the only person still combat effective – Sharon could hear the pilot screaming in agony. It was time to get out.

A quick glance around the cargo area showed that the seven wounded were still alive. She grabbed the back of Trooper Green's shirt and dragged him out. "Hey Chinkers," he said. "I'm putting in for a compassionate transfer to the Catering Corps."

"Can you still shoot, Boof?" she demanded of her teammate. When he nodded – he only had a chunk of his right calf blown away, she tossed him her assault weapon and ordered, "Kill any ragheads you see."

She took a quick glance around. The pilot had done well – he had crashed the bird on the top of a hill, behind which was a sharp drop to a dry watercourse. There was only one easy axis of approach, so her immediate tactical situation was nominal – or it would have been if she couldn't see fifty plus jihadis moving towards her position – no doubt wanting to prove their manhood by cutting the throats of injured Western infidels.

They had another thing coming – Death was here, and her fucking name was Trooper Sharon Xiùlán 'Chinkers' King of the fucking door kickers, and king of this bloody hill. There weren't going to be any easy pickings on this hilltop.

Sharon dragged the rest of the wounded out, ignoring the stabbing pain in her left foot. It felt like the crash had broken a couple of bones. While she was recovering mags from the wounded, she keyed the helmet command channel. "Velma Actual, this is Roachfucker Eight. Over."

"Roachfucker Eight, reading you five by five. You are authenticated. Over."

"Am located on hilltop at grid reference eight niner six eight zero four zero five. Fifty plus ragheads approaching my position. Seven - no, eight wounded, I am only fully combat effective. Requesting immediate fire support. Over."

"Sorry, Roachfucker Eight. All air support is committed. The closest available is fifteen minutes out. Over."

She almost screamed down the line, "What the fuck am I paying taxes for! I want fucking fire support, now! Over." Flames were starting to lick around the chopper. She dove in and unmounted the port door gun – a GS-221 LMG. There was no point yanking out the tribarrel. There were less than twenty rounds remaining.

"You'll just have to stay alive, Roachfucker Eight. Will advise you when support is two minutes out. Over."

A few seconds later she flopped alongside Green, and shoved the LMG towards him. "Give me back my baby, Boof."

When he passed her assault weapon back, the heads up on her visor came back to life, and started picking up targets. "Tar, mate."

"Looks like the front door of Myers on Boxing Day morning," commented Green mildly, cocking the LMG.

"Lots of bargains for everyone," answered Sharon laconically.

It seemed that the ragheads had geed themselves up, because they started yelling and charging up the hill, spraying bullets from the hip from ancient AKs – still the standard weapon of the freedom fighter after two fucking centuries.

Green opened up with the LMG, firing short bursts at the clumped infantry, while Sharon steadily serviced targets with accurate single shots, leaving untidy lumps of clothing scattered over the lower slopes. The ragheads didn't even get halfway up the hill before they broke and ran back down.

"Hey, Chinkers," commented Green. "I reckon we might live through this."

Sharon replaced her empty magazine and growled back, "Shut the fuck up, Boof. You'll put the mozz on us. There's a fucking mad mullah down there, promising them seventy-two virgins if they get to the top of this shitty hill."

Green chuckled. "You're safe then, Chinkers. I reckon you don't even have the box it came in."

"Too fucking right," she said. "Get ready, here they come again." She frowned. It seemed there were more ragheads than when they started.

The second assault went much the same as the first, but Sharon was right. There had to be over a hundred infantry clustered at the bottom of the hill now. "I don't like it, Boof," she said. "The ragheads are planning something. I want some cross-fire. Shifting right." She scrambled about ten metres to the right and flopped down.

"Velma Actual. Where's my air support? Over." she snarled.

Sharon didn't hear the answer. Suddenly, the hilltop erupted in explosions as mortal shells dropped in, throwing clouds of dust into the air. When they stopped, all Sharon could hear was someone screaming. Whoever it was had a high-pitched girly voice, when she realised it was her. She stopped, and the screaming was replaced by other sounds. But she refused to think about those.

This time the jihadis were already halfway up the hill. She started servicing targets again, but the LMG was silent. "Open up, Boof, you fucking slack-arse!" She shifted to three-shot bursts – the ragheads were closely enough packed that she was almost guaranteed a hit. Sharon glanced to her left when she swapped magazines, and wished she hadn't. Only half of Boof was there – a mortar shell had landed directly on his position.

The fuckers were almost on her. There was no fucking way she was dying on this ground. Sharon rose up, screaming her hatred and fear. Her weapon almost aimed itself, the barrel swinging from side to side as she vaporised the enemy. All too soon her last magazine was empty, and she dropped her weapon.

As her right hand fell down to smoothly draw her side arm, a jihadi screamed in English, "Die, infidel bitch!" He let off an entire mag at her on full auto. Not a single round hit her.

Her answer was a single shot in the middle of his forehead, a great spray of blood and brains splattering his Paki mates behind him.

"Roachfucker Eight, support is thirty seconds out."

The words made no sense to her. She fired like an automaton, just like she had been taught in training. Her left hand dropped down to pull her only spare magazine out of her belt pouch as the empty mag fell out of her pistol. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to slap in the spare, pull the slide back and continue firing, all the while advancing towards the enemy.

When the spare was empty, she dropped and rolled, coming up to her knee with a bloodstained AK in her hands.

The jihadis had had enough. They broke and run from this unkillable Angel of Death, this spawn of Iblis.

Still she did not relent, killing the fleeing enemy without mercy, until she saw a flash of sunlight on metal and glass out of the corner of her eye. Sharon dropped to the ground, while the hillside and valley below exploded with fire and thunder.

* * *

><p>Fuck, Sharon hated flashbacks - especially that one. The snorker with bird shit shoulders running her show made her write a detailed after action report, and ever since the memory had been crystal clear. Sharon had changed her team name after the action on the hilltop, insisting that everyone call her by her real name. The next time someone tried to call her by her old team name, she had almost killed the sucker, and nearly got chucked out of the squadrons. The last mate with the right to call her Chinkers was Boof, and he was gone.<p>

Only four of the wounded survived, including the pilot. Five if she counted herself - Sharon had caught a fragment in the arse that she hadn't even felt.

The mortars got the others.

* * *

><p>After the chopper settled on to the flightline, Paklowski asked, "Sharon, are you ok?"<p>

"I'm bonzer," she replied. "Couldn't be better!"

Paklowski asked quietly, so the others couldn't hear, "Why are you crying, then?"

Sharon quickly wiped her tears away with one shaking hand. "Fuck off, Linda," she said. "Chicken stranglers don't cry – it's only eye-sweat. Look how fucking hot it is."

Her friend nodded once, not pressing her any further. Paklowski had seen enough cases of soldiers with PTSD to know the symptoms.

* * *

><p>"Her spirit is in pain," said Alìmtaw to his cousin. "Zharr'n bears a heavy burden from her past."<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Sharon was a little surprised that she wasn't hauled over the carpet that night. Renshaw and his patrol didn't get back until sparrow's fart, when there was only a hint of light along the eastern horizon.

Of course, sparrow's fart here was different to Earth. The ghostly blue glow from the ever-present gas giant Polyphemus and the far distant binary Alpha Centauri B ensured that there were never any really dark nights. The only times it was truly dark were during one of the infrequent days when Polyphemus eclipsed the sun, and the orange binary companion dimly illuminated the night side of Pandora.

Not that there were many truly dark places on Earth anymore. Almost everywhere, the glow of one or more of the megacities lightened the sky, blotting out the sweep of stars. It was only in shitholes that you saw really dark nights, and Sharon had been in entirely too many of them.

The furphy was that Renshaw's patrol had bumped into some dinky-di smurfs – Omaticaya clan, no less – and invited to a ripper shindig. Seeing that the Omaticaya were the clan that had suffered most from the attentions of the late great Mad Dog Quaritch, it looked like Renshaw had been justified in maintaining the rules of engagement.

However, she knew that she had not avoided a beasting from the Boss, only deferred it.

* * *

><p>There were no two ways about it. The Boss looked like absolute shit.<p>

Sharon had never seen an Avatar with a hangover before this morning. It was not a pretty sight. Still, the CO looked a lot better than the rest of the patrol that had come back in at oh-far-too-fucking-late. She tried to relax, knowing that there was about to be a pineapple in her future. There were only two relevant questions – the degree of rotation, and whether lube was a possibility.

"Trooper King, reporting as requested, sir," she chirped, in a bright, efficient and slightly too loud voice. If she was going to cop it spiky end first, Sharon might as well have a bit of fun.

Her attitude had the desired effect. Colonel Renshaw winced visibly. "Cut the crap, Sharon," he said. "This is serious."

"Yes, Boss," she replied, dropping the volume down from eleven.

"Now, explain to me how you persuaded Sergeant Tranh and Corporal Paklowski to flit off base on an unauthorised flight," he said quietly. "I seem to recall that I confined all non-essential female personnel to barracks."

"Yes, sir," she replied, agreeing with the second statement, all the while conveniently failing to provide an explanation.

Renshaw flicked up an eyebrow at her selective answer. "The explanation?" he asked.

"Sergeant Tranh had not completed her minimum number of required hours this month to retain her pilot's rating," she said. "I suggested to her that air traffic control had the authority to approve training flights, according to standard operating procedures. Given the existing shortage of pilots, I thought the requirement to maintain Sergeant Tranh's rating would immediately classify her as essential personnel, and your order would not apply. My belief was subsequently confirmed by issuing of the flight approval by air traffic control, operating under your delegation of authority."

"I see," commented Colonel Renshaw. He was interested to see where Sharon was going with her justification. "And?"

"Your instructions require all Samson chopper flights to carry two trained door gunners," stated Sharon. "Sergeant Tranh posted a request for volunteers from the pool of qualified male personnel to act as door gunners on her training flight. However, no volunteers were forthcoming. She knew that both Corporal Paklowski and myself were qualified door gunners, and so requested us to act in that capacity. Given the importance of this flight, we were happy to volunteer, and for the purposes of this flight both Paklowski and myself were classified as essential personnel. Again, this was confirmed by air traffic control, operating under..."

"I would like to hear you justify the presence of Doctor Fleischmann on this flight," he interrupted.

Sharon recovered smoothly from the interruption. "Doctor Fleischmann is a civilian. As such, she is not bound to follow your orders unless there is a declared emergency. I am not aware that there was a relevant declaration covering the period of time the flight was absent from Hell's Gate. Furthermore, given Doctor Fleischmann's role as Chief Medical Officer she most definitely is essential personnel, and your orders confining her to barracks do not apply."

Colonel Renshaw had noted throughout the entire explanation that Sharon had not used a single obscenity, and her logic was unassailable. Two things were very clear – Sharon was extremely intelligent, and that she had been in a great deal of trouble throughout her entire military career.

"You're quite the barracks room lawyer, Trooper King," he commented drily.

"Sir!" she objected, outrage at such a foul and unjustified accusation coming from her commanding officer bristling from every inch of her not inconsiderable frame.

"There is just one more thing I would like to cover," he said, trying to suppress his amusement at her expression and almost succeeding. If she thought she had wriggled out of all possibly charges she was sadly mistaken. "The tower duty officer reported the entire crew was out of uniform." When he saw the Sharon open her mouth, he forestalled her with a raised hand, advising, "As you have quite clearly stated, Doctor Fleischmann is not subject to military discipline in this area. However, the other three members of the chopper crew were."

"The rules of engagement you have promulgated require all personnel to maintain and improve relationships with the Na'vi whenever possible," stated Sharon. "Under my initiative, I suggested that the crew wear native costume to minimise any perceived level of threat by our presence. However, while the Q-store has an extensive range of supplies – for example, a company's worth of human sized arctic camo in bay E-12 – it does not run to female Na'vi costume. Therefore, as the closest approximation to Na'vi garments, modified human beachwear was selected as the most suitable dress for this mission."

"I see," he repeated. While she had been speaking, he had idly checked the records to see who had authorised inclusion of Avatar-sized female beachwear in the expedition's TOE. He was not surprised to see Colonel Zhong's signature on the requisition form. It seemed the rabbit hole was getting deeper and deeper.

"My initiative was confirmed by the reaction of the two native personnel that we encountered," she added, before he could assault her reasoning. This was the most delicate part of her entire plan.

Renshaw suddenly sat up very straight, sending a shooting pain bouncing around the interior of his skull. "You encountered Na'vi?" he demanded. "I hope you didn't kill them."

"Yes, sir. I mean no, sir," she answered. "Two warriors from the Ikran People of the Eastern Sea." She grinned happily, knowing she was on the home stretch now. "They issued an invitation for us to return any time we wished."

Renshaw's shoulders slumped in relief. "Thank Christ for that," he breathed out. It could have all gone terribly wrong. He straightened up, and said, "Sharon?"

"Yes sir?" Sharon asked brightly. She really was home and hosed.

"Next time," he requested, "Take mercy on my blood pressure, and just ask for permission."

"Of course, sir," she answered.

Somehow Colonel Renshaw knew that this request was falling on deaf ears. He was about to dismiss her when the communicator on his desk chirped. He answered the call immediately.

Sharon's ears pricked when she overheard that a delegation of Na'vi from the Omaticaya had arrived at the front gate. There were definitely some major advantages to inhabiting an Avatar body, and enhanced hearing was one of them. This would be interesting, especially when she heard the Boss ask them in to see him immediately.

"Dismissed," he ordered.

"Thank you, sir," she replied, and made to leave.

"Oh, and Sharon," he added. "I hope the surf was good."

Sharon grinned again, and replied with one word. "Bitching."

* * *

><p>On her way down the steps of the longhouse, Sharon saw a female Na'vi – no, an Avatar coming up the steps. "Tania?" she asked. It was the unlucky bitch who had been kidnapped three months ago. She no longer looked like an employee of the RDA. Instead, apart from her hands and feet, she looked as though she had been living with the clans her entire life.<p>

"Hi Sharon," the woman replied calmly. "Long time no see."

Now Sharon wasn't quite so sure it was Tatyana Fyodorvna Petrova. She had always been a little nervous and jumpy – at least as long as Sharon had known her. This woman was calm and serene.

"Where the fuck have you been, girl?" demanded Sharon.

"With the Omaticaya," she replied. "If you would excuse me, Colonel Renshaw is expecting me." She nodded and swept up the stairs as if she owned the entire planet. Fuck, thought Sharon. The bitch had really hardened up – no way was she a blunt blanket-stacker now.

At this point, Sharon's instincts immediately cut in. It was time for a little spookery. Her feet walked Sharon around the side of the longhouse, to a spot that was hidden from view by some conveniently placed greenery, which just by chance happened to be directly below the window behind the Boss' desk. Sharon had come across this spot about fifteen seconds after the CO had set up his command post here. If anyone had challenged her right to be there, she would have grinned and replied that she was gathering information in order to better anticipate her orders.

After all, a prime responsibility of a super-grunt was intelligence gathering, and the poor bastard brain-deficient pongos in this unit needed every scrap they could get.

It was with interest that Sharon heard Tania briefly described how she was captured by an Omaticaya woman and former member of the Avatar program. It seemed the Na'vi also had a process for permanently transferring personalities. However, what was really freaky was that Tania knew the turncoat bitch from when she was a kid – some Ukrainian slit called Na'diakhudoshin. Talk about fucking coincidences.

The Omaticaya set Tania to work, teaching her how to live off the land like a native, and then adopted her into the clan. It was with a flash of jealousy that Sharon heard Tania had acquired a banshee to ride.

The collection of any further information regarding Tania's stay in captivity was interrupted by the arrival of the Na'vi delegation.

From the sound of it there were four in the delegation, and it appeared that Renshaw had acquired a little chippie admirer named Amala. The sly dog, thought Sharon. But then the business got down to tin tacks.

It seemed the Omaticaya were in the business of diplomacy, looking to trade favours – although they weren't asking for anything up front. Sharon was always suspicious of anything that wasn't a straight-up swap – unless it was in her favour, of course. It usually cost blood further down the line.

The chief Na'vi negotiator – the turncoat bint Na'diakhudoshin – gave the Boss a hangover cure to deal with the fallout from last night's shindig, and was offering to share knowledge on how to deal with the disruptive female behaviour – using some special women's only ceremony called Uniluke.

"Fuck," whispered Sharon to herself. "Take it, Boss." She was sick of feeling her nerves jangling discordantly, making her exercise her self-control to the utmost. Sharon was not into self-control. The only time she had felt calm in the last few weeks was yesterday, out on the wave. She sighed with relief when he agreed for the Na'vi to brief the women – and only the women – in this ceremony, using the maintenance hangar.

Sharon was amused when she heard the chippie offer to stay to keep company with Renshaw, so he didn't get lonely. All there was to do now was to wait for the Na'vi to depart the longhouse, and then scarper for the maintenance hangar.

And then something happened which she had not expected.

In a slightly raised voice, Renshaw called out, "Sharon, you'd better get a move on if you're not going to be late for the briefing."

Shit! Sprung bad, thought Sharon. There was nothing for it but to say, "Yes, sir."

Any daydreams about the Boss using his wooden spoon to stir her honeypot on a regular basis instantly vanished. When Sharon decided to finally rust on to a male, it would be to one that she could twist around her little finger. Amala was welcome to the bugger.

* * *

><p>Inside the maintenance hangar was every single female member of the Hel's Gate garrison, all one hundred and sixteen of them. They seemed to be drawn from an incredible range of professions, but right now they were a vicious mob. Sharon had to push through the mill to get close to Linda and company, and a couple of bitches had objected to her passage.<p>

They did not happen to maintain their objections for long. One was left gasping on the ground as a result of a stiff fingered strike to the solar plexus, while the other was now sporting a rapidly blackening eye.

Three slits in native dress climbed up onto a raised platform that had formerly been used to work on AMP suits. One of them was Tania, who attracted some catcalls about her current state of undress, but it was the other two that attracted Sharon's interest. One of them was the shortest adult female Na'vi – no, hang on, the bitch had the extra finger of an Avatar – that Sharon had ever seen. Not only that, she had a very impressive set of tits, around about the biggest she had ever seen on a local, Avatar or not. The other smurf was a true native standing protectively close to the shrimp. Sharon's finely tuned gaydar detected that the two women were indeed engaged in bearded clam tongue wrestling on a regular basis.

"Ladies!" cried out short stuff. The voice was the same Sharon had heard from the Boss' office, so it must belong to the Na'dia slut. A wave of ironic laughter washed over the crowd. Any less ladylike grouping of women could not be imagined. "No doubt you have been going through difficult times, experiencing what you might call über-PMS."

"Too bloody right!" yelled Sharon to another gust of bitter laughter. "It almost makes me nostalgic for being on the rag."

"The Na'vi have a solution for this, a ceremony called Uniluke," said Na'dia. What she described sounded pretty much like the Sharon's definition of a fucking good time, drinking herself to almost to oblivion followed by a few hours of screwing three other female acquaintances, although from what she said the process tended to generate a sense of attachment. That didn't bother Sharon too much. She rather fancied engaging in some friendly mutual batting practice with Corporal Linda Paklowski, even though the woman was clearly married.

What bothered Sharon was the requirement to be stung by some scorpion-like creature with entirely too many legs and a stinger the size of both her thumbs. Na'dia's VCF pulled one out of a pottery jar to demonstrate. Sharon had never been to keen on creepy crawlies, having had to shake entirely too many out of her boots on campaign. From the muttering around her, it seemed that most of the crowd felt likewise.

Sharon called out, "I've never minded getting right royally pissed, but I'm not too keen on letting a fucking scorpion shove its stinger in my bloody arm, just on some bitch's say-so. I've read the shit on the venomous fucking wildlife here. Why the fuck should we trust some slack cunt who has gone fucking native?"

"Before I answer that question," said Na'dia, "Is there anyone here who has mated and is carrying a child? Partaking of Uniluke will result in a miscarriage."

Sharon snorted with disbelief, and commented drily, "There is no fucking way any of us would fuck anyone from this pack of fucking losers."

There was dead silence after her remarks, until Kim Tranh – who was standing next to Sharon – shyly put up her hand. "I'm pregnant," she said quietly. There was a gasp of horror and shock from the crowd.

"Kim, what bastard raped you?" demanded Sharon savagely, grabbing at her shoulder and pulling her around to face her.

"No one raped me, Sharon," replied Kim calmly, "I mated with Lieutenant Foster a month ago, and joined with him in tsahaylu. I think that means he is my husband, according to the locals." Her face darkened as she looked around and said hotly, "And all of you bitches can keep your filthy eyes off him. He's mine, I love him, and he loves me. If I catch anyone touching him I'll kill the slutty bitch."

"Foster, hey," conceded Sharon grudgingly. She could appreciate Kim's passion regarding Foster - if Sharon ever got around to putting her mark of ownership on some hunk of testosterone with a big swinging instrument between his legs, she would react exactly the same way as Kim. "I suppose he's not so bad. You could have done a lot worse."

"Is there anyone else?" asked Na'dia. "No? Good. To allay your doubts, Tania and I will participate with two others in Uniluke."

Sharon saw Na'dia's fuck-buddy scowling – she clearly didn't like the idea of letting her bitch sleep around. "Hold on," said Sharon, "If it is going to give your lady friend here the shits, you don't have to do this fucking Uniluke thing with any of us. It's enough for me that you were willing to do it with us scum." She grinned and coarsely growled, "Which three of you sluts want to come muff-diving with me?"

* * *

><p>As it turned out, there were only three volunteers - Sabine, Linda and Kim. Sharon called the rest of the women a bunch of dry-slitted knock-kneed poags. No-one really knew what she meant, but it was clear that it was something pretty offensive. There was a sudden surge forward, until the crowd collectively realised that it was Sharon doing the name-calling, and from the mad glint in her eye she was willing to take on the whole lot of them.<p>

They all that knew she had not a chance in Hades of winning, but the women in front came to sudden realisation that they were the ones that were going to be doing most of the hurting. So they stopped dead, before a single punch was thrown, or face scratched, and the heroes at the back of the mob didn't try too hard to push through.

"For fuck's sake, Sharon," growled Linda, after the maintenance hangar had been cleared. "Are you insane?"

"Mad as cut snakes," agreed Sharon, adding sagely, "Just maintaining my spot at the top of the pecking order. I knew the cunts have the spines of box jellyfish - venomous as all hell, but you can squish them with a well placed set of after-fives." She turned towards Na'dia, and said, "Before you start giving us the low-down on Uniluke, I've heard you have a rep for damage – the former tenants called you the Ghoul."

The short Omaticaya woman agreed reluctantly, "That is the case."

"Good," replied Sharon. "How about a cake and arse party in a day or two, after the piss up and fuck fest."

"What?" asked the clearly puzzled Na'dia.

"A stoush," explained Sharon. At the continued disconnect, she expanded upon the theme, "Squirting the dead horse. Having a dust-up."

"Are you even speaking 'Ìnglìsì?" demanded Na'dia.

Sharon's eyes were laughing merrily when she finally said, "Oel ngati wem, fpeio mìkam'eylan."

"Oh!" said Na'dia. Everything was clear now. "You wish to fight me, in a friendly challenge."

"I would be careful about accepting a challenge from Sharon," advised Pakloswki. "The last friendly fight Sharon had, her opponent ended up in hospital – he is still in there."

As if it explained everything, Sharon shrugged, "He was a man."

Na'dia cast a speculative eye over the tall and rangy female Avatar. It had been many years since anyone had truly pushed her in a fight, practice or otherwise. "I accept your challenge," she said calmly. "In two days. You will need the time to recover from Uniluke."

"So give us the gen," asked Sharon, apparently satisfied with the prospect of a good fight.

Ninat, the friend of Na'dia, spoke for the first time. "There is a problem," she said, looking directly at Kim. "One of you is with child."

"So?" queried Kim. "We are friends, and will not be parted. If what you say is true, only those who are a tsumuke'awsiteng bond through Uniluke."

The other three women exchanged surprised glances at Kim's passion, especially Sharon. True female friends for her had been few and far between – it had always seemed easier to acquire male friends, especially when she made it clear that the old in and out was off-limits. She liked Kim. For such a quiet and shy slit – she hardly ever opened her cock holster - the bang seat bitch was as straight as a dog's hind leg. Just Sharon's cup of tea, despite the disadvantage she laboured under from being a flog-off instead of a grunt.

As for the other two – Linda was a real oppo, one she would trust with her life. The Doc, well she was just plain weird. But then, she was a civilian, so it wasn't too hard to explain, and Sharon just happened to like weird.

Sharon affirmed, "Kim is right. We're a bunch of squaddies." Sabine and Linda nodded in agreement.

"It seems we have a tsumuke'awsiteng of uniltìranyu," said Na'dia with a smile.

Tania pointed out, "There is still a problem."

Kim shrugged, "I can wait."

"So can I," said Linda. "Niccolo and I want a child, and if Uniluke has contraceptive qualities, it will only delay us. Besides, Kim and I aren't the ones that need the attitude adjustment – we're the ones getting regular servicing."

Sabine laughed, and slapped Sharon on the back. "It looks like it's you and me, soldier," she said, and laughed again.

* * *

><p>Uniluke blew Sharon's mind.<p>

The jungle juice that the Na'vi called tirea'tutee was the best rotgut she had ever imbibed, not to mention its hallucinogenic qualities. On Earth, it would have rated ten grand a glass – if it hadn't been lethal to humans. Out of curiosity, the Doc tested some with a field kit – she said it would kill a human in less than thirty seconds, but was perfectly harmless for Avatars or Na'vi.

It turned out that the Doc – or as she insisted now, Sabine – was a ripper drinking partner, as good as any Sharon had ever known. She was a real raconteur, often having Sharon splitting her sides in laughter. After all while, however, the rate of drinking slowed.

"Sabine," said Sharon dreamily, laying flat on her back in the secluded grove, not far from Hell's Gate. Na'dia had insisted that it be somewhere quiet, and safe, and comfortable. There was even a small pool there – Na'dia had insisted it was traditional. The view of Polyphemus hanging in the night sky was awesome, particularly the way the butterflies were performing a mass re-entry into the gas giant's atmosphere, making a drop assault on the evil spiders lurking there. Were there even butterflies on Pandora?

"Ja, Sharon?" answered Doc.

"I don't believe I've ever said this before," said Sharon, "But I think I've had enough to drink." She tried lifting a hand off the ground – a task successfully achieved, but then Sharon wondered why she had gone to so much trouble, and let it flop back alongside her.

There were several seconds' silence, until Sharon heard Sabine start to giggle. After a little while, Sabine said, "I think that means it's time for the creepy-crawly."

"Have the butterflies captured it?" asked Sharon semi-curiously. She rolled over on her side, to see Sabine crawling slowly towards the pottery crock holding the kali'weya.

"Butterflies?" queried Sabine. She was attempting to make her hand connect with the handle to the crock lid."What butterflies?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Sharon. "They're gone." It was such a pity, the butterflies had been very pretty, and they had really polished their brass up well, and their boots had a mirror shine.

"Ow!" exclaimed Sabine. The kali'weya had stung her as she retrieved it from the crock, and then she started moaning. Somehow Sabine maintained enough control that the kali'weya was still firmly in her grip, and she stood up – a feat that had been impossible only ten seconds ago.

"Hi," said Sharon languidly. The Doc looked very tall, even when she knelt alongside Sharon. "You look different," observed Sharon. Why was Sabine panting, and why were her eyes so bright? More to the point, what was she holding in her left hand?

"Ow!" exclaimed Sharon. That hurt. While she was wondering what the big deal was all about, Sharon's head suddenly cleared. "Oh," she said quietly, and then a lot more loudly. "Oh!" Her breasts and groin were burning to be caressed, pulsing with her every heartbeart. Sharon's eyes locked with Sabine's – she couldn't think any longer, all that she was was a savage desire to touch and be touched.

She reached up to draw Sabine's face down to hers, and they kissed.

* * *

><p>It was very pleasant to doze in the arms of...Sharon snapped awake.<p>

"Hi," smiled Sabine. Her face was only inches away from Sharon's. "I was wondering when you would wake up."

Sharon felt a strange ache in her heart, an ache that she had never felt before, and her eyesight grew misty.

Sabine touched her cheek softly and wondered, "You're crying."

Suddenly, Sharon embraced Sabine as hard as she could. Her shoulders shook as she tried and failed to contain her weeping, and between the sobs Sharon whispered three words she never thought she would say to any living being.

"I love you."


	6. Chapter 6

It was midday before Sharon returned to Hell's Gate with Sabine.

"It's ok," said Sabine with a smile, catching at Sharon's hand. "I won't tell anyone."

Sharon squeezed back. "Thanks," she said. "If it got out I was blubbing like a baby about a lost dummy, I would never live it down."

"That does a lot for a girl's self-esteem," quipped Sabine drily. "To be compared to a lost dummy is not an honour I really aspired to."

"Sorry," said Sharon. "I've never been good at relationships." She had no doubt that she was in one now. Sharon had not been prepared for the depth of feeling that had opened up with Uniluke. It seemed that Avatars were wired quite differently than humans, who could screw like bonobos without forming any emotional attachment whatsoever.

Or at least that was what Sharon had always told herself.

"Don't worry," replied Sabine. "I'll let you know if you are screwing up by the numbers."

"I don't doubt it," said Sharon.

* * *

><p>"Well?" asked Colonel Renshaw.<p>

"I am not sure what you are asking, sir," stated Sharon, in her normal position when summonsed into the Boss' office – that is, standing rigidly at parade rest in front of his desk staring two inches above his head.

"For Christ's sake, Sharon, stop with the clockwork soldier routine and sit down," ordered Renshaw.

Fortunately, Renshaw had thrown out the less than satisfactory chairs supplied for use by the RDA, and had the workshops section produce backless stools. It was almost impossible to sit down comfortably in a chair, as there was no place for the tail to go.

"Yes, sir!" she snapped, and took her seat – or rather stool, her back as straight as a ramrod.

The CO of RDA forces at Hell's Gate sighed. It seemed that she was determined to continue playing games – perhaps it had been unwise to 'pull her tail' by playing the all-seeing commanding officer at their last encounter. "Will Uniluke resolve the disciplinary issues we have had with our female personnel?" he asked.

Sharon smiled a little when she answered, "Yes."

"That's it?" he demanded. "Yes?"

The smile vanished off her face. "I'm sorry, sir," she replied crisply. "The Na'vi were very clear that Uniluke is 'secret women's business.' That means no aspect of the ceremony may be revealed to males."

"What if I ordered you to divulge all relevant information regarding the ceremony?" he asked.

"I would have to respectfully decline," she answered calmly, thinking there was a pineapple in her immediate future. Again.

"Good," he replied, surprising her. "That is exactly the response I expected from you. If we are to make any headway with the Na'vi, then we have to show respect to their cultural practices, and be seen to do so."

"There is something you need to know about Uniluke," offered Sharon. "I suspect the emotional bonds formed between the four women who share the rite are somewhat permanent in nature. The Na'vi have a term for them – a tsumuke'awsiteng. You will need to take account of this when assigning duties and extended postings off-base."

"Is that so?" asked Renshaw curiously, translating the term in his head – sisters together.

"Yes," stated Sharon. "The Na'vi recognise this. They will not break up a tsumuke'awsiteng. If a male mates with a woman from another clan, then in almost all cases he will change clans rather than break up a tsumuke'awsiteng. The only exception to this rule is if the entire tsumuke'awsiteng agrees to change clans. In that case, all their mates change clans as well."

"So in a sense it is like a marriage, except between four women, instead of two people," mused the Colonel. It seemed that Na'vi was much more matriarchal in nature than had previously been supposed – although it was difficult to tell. All the original first contact records with the Na'vi that had detailed anthropological notes were classified well beyond his level of access.

Renshaw chuckled, "You are married to the M.O. now - you and Doc Fleischmann. Ha!" He was expecting a grin or a laugh from the soldier in front of him, but instead received a flinty gaze, completely lacking in humour or amusement.

After several uncomfortable seconds of silence, Sharon replied simply, "Sabine is my sister. May I go now?"

"Dismissed," agreed Renshaw, somehow understanding that he had committed a grave faux pas.

* * *

><p>As she ambled away from the longhouse, Sharon wondered if the Boss had realised how much more difficult his job was about to become. Once the scumbags in this unit started pursuing bints in other clans...shit! She was already considering Hell's Gate as a clan. They needed a better clan name. Perhaps the Avatars would call themselves the Uniltìranyu. The Dreamwalker Clan – it had a nice ring to it. She half-thought that was how the Fifteen Clans already thought of the Avatars here at Hell's Gate.<p>

She would suggest this to Renshaw - via an e-mail, rather than in person. Sharon didn't feel inclined to talk to him at the moment, not after his attitude about Sabine.

Anyway, once the muppety pongos started following their short arms – there just weren't enough slits here to satisfy demand, and she had no intention of making it easy for any of the fucking ankles – the Boss could find his command jacking up and disappearing out from underneath.

* * *

><p>When Sharon re-entered the female quarters, she was almost mobbed.<p>

"What was it like?"

"Did it hurt?"

"Was it fun?"

It seemed there were a thousand questions along similar lines. Sharon held up her hand to forestall the bunch of sheilas surrounding her.

"Steady on," she said over the hubbub. "Let the dog see the rabbit."

"So what was Uniluke like?" asked one of the women in the front row, once the noise abated.

"Intense." Sharon hesitated, wondering what else to say, until she settled on, "Make sure you really like the three bints you ask - as people, I mean. Uniluke isn't just a casual fuck."

This wasn't the response the women had expected from Sharon.

"Ok, ladies," she added, stifling a yawn. "If you don't mind, I'm going to hit the wank chariot for some cyclone training. I'm buggered."

As it turned out, they did mind. But they were too afraid of her to mention it.

* * *

><p>There was something of a surprise waiting for her when Sharon entered her digs – namely, a lot less space. Her space.<p>

It appeared that Sabine had moved quickly, all in the time it had taken for her interview with Renshaw. Two cots had been pushed together, and a storage cabinet squeezed in, leaving scarcely enough space to navigate into the tiny bathroom. Sharon's eyes tracked across the room bounded by paper thin walls, the room that she had called her own, until they fixed on the opening bathroom curtain.

A very clean and happy Chief Medical Officer stepped from the bathroom into the sleeping space, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around her wet hair. Sabine took the opportunity to slide her arms around Sharon's waist, and planted a kiss on her surprised lips. A little while later, the kiss regretfully ended.

"Hi," said Sabine. "I missed you."

"Ah..." said Sharon.

Sabine forestalled her words. "Shhh," she said. "You don't need to say anything. I just want to show you how much I missed you."

The Chief Medical Officer had missed Sharon a great deal in the half-an-hour or so they had been parted, and Sharon never did get her afternoon nap. Nor did she get any food either, not until the following day.

As for the loss of her personal space? It appeared that Sharon didn't mind the loss that much, after all.

* * *

><p>"Sharon! Turned that damned thing off!" yelled Paklowski, holding her hands over her sensitive ears.<p>

Sharon heard a faint noise, frowned slightly, pointed to the headphones over her ears and yelled, "I can't hear a fucking word. This piece of shit is making too much racket." She made a gesture towards the industrial vacuum cleaner she was using to hoover up the fine dust being produced by the power sander. Then she caught the expression on Linda's face, sighed, and switched both the sander and the vacuum cleaner off.

"What is it?" she shouted, and then when Linda winced, she removed her headphones and said in a softer voice, "Sorry."

"Na'dia wants to know if you are chickening out of your challenge," said Linda, shaking her head to get the ringing out of her ears.

"Oh, fuck!" swore Sharon. After the turmoil provoked by Uniluke and her 'just add tirea'tutee and one kali'weya sting' instant relationship with Sabine, the challenge had clear slipped her mind. "Tell her I'll be outside the gym in fifteen." She tidied the tools away, and ran her hand along the blank she had cut out of the foam block. This was going to be a totally gaz board, one of the best she had ever shaped.

"I thought you were happy with your board," commented Linda. "So why are you making another one?"

"It's not for me," replied Sharon shortly. "Now, fuck off and give the bitch my seventy-seven. I'll be there."

* * *

><p>There was a considerable crowd waiting outside the gym when Sharon arrived there, toting a heavy bag over her shoulder.<p>

Na'dia looked at her curiously and asked, "Are you ready?"

"Hold on," answered Sharon, dropping the bag on the ground and opening it. "If you're as good as they say you are, then we are both going to be hurting soon. You're going to wear protective gear, just like I am, whether you like it or not." She tossed an assortment of gloves, breast plates, knee and elbow pads, and a padded helmet at the surprised Omaticaya woman. "I have no fucking intention of spending time in the panel beating shop if I can avoid it. And don't forget this." Sharon threw a mouthguard blank – liquorice flavour – at Na'dia. She had kept a lemon flavoured one for herself. "I'd rather you kept all your teeth."

While Sharon was putting on her gear, Paklowski drifted over to the Omaticaya women to murmur in Ninat's ear, "I would encourage Na'dia to put it on. Sharon really is that good."

Ninat bristled and snapped back, "Na'dia is a great warrior. She does not need these...things." She made a gesture towards the protective gear scattered on the ground before her.

"How good?" asked Na'dia, ignoring Ninat for the moment, as she examined the mouthguard blank, turning it over and over. They had not had these on 'Rrta when she was a girl, but it was easy enough to divine what it was.

Paklowski answered, "Sharon was the unarmed combat instructor for the Australian Special Air Service Regiment for the last eighteen months of her service."

Na'dia nodded, and slowly began to put the gear on. It had been many years and another body since she had last worn garments such as these. Ninat's mouth dropped open in surprise. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"You would have me unhurt, my love," said Na'dia, touching her sister gently on the belly, "So that I may care for you while the child within you grows."

Tania said, "Na'dia is right to wear the gear, Ninat. I have seen Sharon fight."

"What are the rules?" asked Na'dia.

"Rules?" responded Sharon with a laugh. "There is only one rule. We stop when one of us says enough." She tilted her head from one side to the other, producing audible crunches while she danced lightly on the balls of her feet. "Are you ready?"

"Srane," replied Na'dia.

Suddenly, Sharon found herself backpedalling fast, blocking strike after strike in a furious series of combinations. She had never seen anyone move so quickly. Na'dia was more like a whirling dervish than a woman, and it was all offense, no defence. The problem was that the tiny bitch was so fast she didn't have time to make any counters. Not only that – some of the blows were getting through, and they HURT!

The watching Omaticaya were yelling triumphantly as they saw their warrior drive the dreamwalker back, when they abruptly fell silent. Sharon had stepped right into one blow, absorbing the power of the strike in her ribs, while she unleashed a ferocious counter-punch, striking Na'dia in the side of the jaw. The smaller woman was rocked by the power of the blow, falling to one knee.

Sharon spat out her mouthguard and asked, "You ok?"

Plucking out her mouthguard, Na'dia nodded. She stated, "You could have put me away."

"Perhaps," replied Sharon. "But that wouldn't be any fucking fun."She felt her ribs gingerly – Sharon didn't think any were broken. Then again, she might be entirely mistaken. "Again?"

"Yes," was the one word reply.

The crowd watched in silence as the Sharon advanced slowly, pushing Na'dia back with a flurry of blows. As she moved forward, Sharon absorbed blow after blow, until she swept Na'dia's feet out from under her. She shouted as her stiffened fingers shot forward, stopping just short of Na'dia's throat.

The lethal hand changed into an invitation to help the smaller woman up. Na'dia said ruefully, "You're better at hand-to-hand than me."

"Not by much," admitted Sharon, hauling her opponent back onto her feet. "A bee's dick is all. I think the only bloody difference is that I can take a bit more of a pounding." There was a curious expression on Na'dia's face, as though she was enjoying a private joke, other than the obvious double entendre. Sharon's eyes narrowed, and she accused, "You're holding something back."

"Yes," agreed Na'dia.

"What the fuck for!" demanded the soldier angrily. "Are you trying to fucking rupert me?"

While Na'dia might not know exactly the words Sharon had used, the tone of her voice left Na'dia no doubt that Sharon felt she was being dishonoured. It seemed that Sharon was as touchy about her honour as any warrior of the clans.

Na'dia started to explain, "I did not think it was fair..."

"Fuck fair!" exploded Sharon. "Again!"

"Very well," said Na'dia. "Don't say I didn't warn you." She breathed out slowly, and there was a gasp from the onlookers as her image shimmered and faded from sight.

"Fuck me sideways," murmured Sharon, holding steady in the guard position. Then, what felt like a foot slammed into the side of her head, knocking her to her hands and knees, followed by a punch to the kidneys, driving her into the ground.

* * *

><p>About ten minutes later, Colonel Renshaw pushed his way through the crowd, to see a battered, bruised and bleeding Sharon being helped to her feet by Na'dia. It looked as though she had the absolute shit kicked out of her. "What is going on here?" he demanded.<p>

Sharon spat blood onto the ground and answered, "It's a friendly test of arms, sir," she replied. "Again?" she asked, looking at Na'dia.

"I think you've had enough," said Renshaw.

"No!" Sharon snapped back. "I know I've got this. One more time."

Na'dia looked towards the Colonel. "It is according to the rules we agreed. We fight until one of us has had enough."

Renshaw glanced at the two women. He knew that Sharon would never give up, and to order her to give in would be a slur on her pride. "Na'dia," he appealed. "You could decide you have had enough."

Na'dia shook her head. "I would be lying. To do as you say would dishonour Sharon."

"Very well," said Renshaw. He turned to Sharon and ordered, "One more exchange, as you agreed. Then that is it."

Sharon was a little relieved when Renshaw spoke. She was tired and sore. "Yes, sir," she replied.

As she took guard, Sharon wondered how Na'dia had been fading from sight. Perhaps she was doing some mumbo-jumbo with the local deity, and influencing everyone's perceptions of reality. Perhaps she never really was invisible, and she was somehow hypnotising everyone to think she was. An approach of brute force as she had been using would not work, if that was what she was doing.

She remembered that one guy she had served with – his handle had been Stretch – had been into this yoga shit, and had always hummed some mantras before he went into combat. It seemed to relax him, and he said it made him more focused.

But Sharon had never been into all that hocus-pocus. She didn't know how to call upon the spirits, or gods, or anything like that. However, she did know how to do one thing. She shut her eyes and reached for the feeling that she had last experienced on her surfboard, inside the tube as she hung on moments from being wiped out.

A sense of calm descended upon her, where before there had been rage. "Ready," she said quietly.

Renshaw was surprised when Na'dia shimmered from view.

Sharon wasn't – not after having the shit hammered out of her for the last fucking ten painful minutes.

Very simple thoughts ran through Sharon's mind. Block, pivot, sweep, clamp, twist and drop. Then, a distant sound of cheering came to her ears, as she found herself with one knee planted in the middle of Na'dia's back, pinning her to the ground. Sharon had twisted Na'dia's left arm painfully up behind her back, making it impossible for her to wriggle free. She released the Omaticaya woman immediately, and said, "Thanks, Na'dia. That was good."

As Sharon hauled Na'dia back to her feet, Na'dia said, "No-one has ever been able to do that to me."

"There is always a first time," said Sharon. "Say, how did you do the 'fade to black' shit? I'd like to be able to do that."

Na'dia chuckled, "There are two steps required to master the technique. First, find a friendly palulukan. Second, persuade her to teach you how to disappear – and not down her throat."

"A thanator?" exclaimed Sharon. "Shit! You're more of a galah than I ever was." She instantly resolved that she didn't really want to learn how to be invisible. Sharon might indeed be a nut-case, but she wasn't fucking insane.

* * *

><p>After the crowd dispersed, Na'dia watched Sharon limp off in the company of Pakloswki to seek medical treatment. She commented to Renshaw, "She is a warrior without comparison."<p>

"Sharon is the most difficult soldier I have ever commanded," he replied, watching the battered but proud soldier leave the battlefield. "But you are right. She is the best warrior I have ever seen."

"It is often the way of such," replied Na'dia. "Remember this, when it is time."

"What?" asked Renshaw, turning back towards the Omaticaya woman.

But she, like Sharon, was gone.

* * *

><p>When Sharon limped into Sabine's office, supported by Paklowski, she was greeted by several seconds of silence.<p>

"Hi, Sabine," she said through swollen lips. "I need a little panel beating."

"What the fuck?" queried the Chief Medical Officer. "What have you done to yourself?"

Linda replied for her, "Some unarmed combat training with one of the Na'vi and a whole lot of pride did this, Sabine."

Sharon hadn't removed any of the protective gear. Silently, Sabine unripped the Velcro fastenings, easing the gear – gloves, helmet and padding – slowly off her body. The sense of disapproval in the room was palpable – even more so when Sabine started to clean the many cuts and scrapes decorating Sharon's skin.

Linda had to give it to Sharon. She didn't flinch or cry out once. If it had been Linda being cleaned up, she would be saying 'ouch' at ten second intervals. "It's partly my fault," said Linda, "If I hadn't told Sharon that Na'dia was waiting for her, this would never have happened."

Sabine snorted in disbelief. "I don't think that is right, do you, darling?" she asked, a thread of venom running through her voice.

"It's all my fault," agreed Sharon. "If I wasn't such a fuck-witted quarmbie, I wouldn't get in so much fucking strife."

"I'm glad we are agreed in that," said Linda and Sabine in chorus.

"How is Kim?" asked Sharon, seeking to change the subject away from her inadequacies as a person.

Linda replied, "She's enjoying the move into married quarters."

"The Boss didn't cut up about it?"

"No," said Linda. "He just sighed, and said it was inevitable. Mind you, not that he can afford to point the finger at anyone."

"Oh, is that chippie from the Omaticaya still hanging around?" queried Sharon. "Her name is Amala, I think."

"You bet," replied Linda. "Missile has acquired target and is locked on."

"God, you are a mess," commented Sabine finally. "I don't think there is going to be any lasting damage, though. You'll just be pissing blood for a day or two."

"Thank Christ for small fucking mercies," said Sharon.

"I suppose it is asking too much for you to take the next week easy," stated Sabine. "It will take at least that long before some of these really start to heal."

Linda snorted derisively at that prospect, but was surprised at Sharon's next words.

"Ok," said Sharon. "A spot of doona wrestling sounds just the thing."

"Doona wrestling?" asked Sabine. That sounded entirely too energetic for what Sharon needed.

"Gonking," explained Sharon. "You know, cyclone training. "

"Pandora to Sharon," said Linda. "Your message is garbled. Please repeat, over."

"Oh," replied Sharon. "I mean sleeping."

"And no sex," said Sabine firmly. "You'll be too sore to enjoy it anyway."

"I was sore after Uniluke," teased Sharon. "It didn't seem to stop you yesterday, though."

The Chief Medical Officer flushed darker. "I didn't mean that kind of sore," she hissed.

Linda wondered what exactly had happened during Uniluke, to make Sharon so, um, pliable. No doubt, she and Kim would find out in time when they finally joined the tsumuke'awsiteng in deed as well as intention.


	7. Chapter 7

As it turned out, Sharon did not stay in bed, although she successfully managed to wheedle out of the Chief Medical Officer a pass to avoid all assigned duty for the next week due to injury, despite having persuaded Sabine that she wasn't too sore for some things. Sharon was not above a little bribery, telling Sabine that if she had to perform her normal duties, she would be too exhausted to attend to Sabine's needs. And it turned out that the Chief Medical Officer was the tiniest bit corruptible.

However, Sharon was only to be found in one of two places when she wasn't in bed – either in the mess, or in the rear of the maintenance hangar, working on her next surfboard. This was a slightly longer board, with a bit more buoyancy, although it was still a three-fin thruster in configuration.

Right now Sharon was painting the top surface, using a combination of fine brushes as well as the airbrush. She took a step back to verify the work when a male voice spoke from behind her.

"You're a talented artist," rumbled Renshaw.

Sharon spun around in surprise, her hand tightening on the airbrush trigger, spraying her CO with a fine mist of aquamarine.

"Pah," spat Renshaw, trying to clear his tongue of the taste of paint.

"Sorry, sir," she said, bracing herself to attention, but forgetting to release the airbrush trigger. When she felt her foot becoming damp, Sharon glanced down, realised she was painting her foot aquamarine and released the trigger. She swore, "Shit! Sorry sir, I didn't mean to spray you."

"No biggy," he replied, instantly relaxing her. It seemed she wasn't in trouble – this time. "It should wash off."

"No sir," she contradicted. "You will need to use a solvent. It doesn't wash off with soap and water." There was a female Na'vi standing just behind the Boss, her native clothing bearing the clan symbols of the Omaticaya. Was this the infamous Amala? "Oel ngati kameie," said Sharon. It didn't hurt to be polite, not if this woman was going to be Mrs Boss sometime, even if Renshaw didn't realise this fact yet.

Amala sketched out with her hand a silent greeting in reply, but her attention was focused on the unfinished scene on the surfboard. "You See to heart of things, Zharr'n," said Amala, her voice low pitched and husky, her English heavily accented with the rhythms of Na'vi. "I have not seen images made like this before." She stepped forward to examine it more closely.

"It's nothing," replied Sharon, her face running hot with embarrassment.

"I'm surprised you chose the military, if you could paint like this," said Renshaw, pointing his chin at the surfboard. The unfinished scene showed a Na'vi surfer going tubular, while two ikran with riders soared overhead.

Sharon laughed ironically. "This is what got me into camo," she chuckled. When the Boss flicked up an enquiring eyebrow in question, she felt compelled to answer. "I would wag fucking school and if the surf wasn't running, I went tagging, big time. I racked up a bunch of juvie convictions for truancy and defacing private property, until I was seventeen, when a cunt of a judge offered me a choice. Two fucking years in the fucking stockade, or join the bloody Army. Guess which one I chose."

It appeared that Amala had been listening to their conversation. "Eywa guided you in your choice," she said, not taking her eyes from the surfboard. "You have chosen truly. Why else would you be here?"

Sharon snorted, but made no further comment. The only supernatural being she believed in was Murphy, who seemed to always pay special attention to her activities. It was only later that she found out friends of her grandfather had pressured the judge to offer her the choice, otherwise she would have had no options other than inside.

Needless to say, her fucking mother and dickless dad had been fucking useless, merely expressing horror that their less-than-respectable daughter had done something so crass as to join the military, flapping their hands at the public shame. No doubt they would have preferred her to been assigned to some fashionable 'rehabilitation centre' that would have brain-washed her into becoming some gormless bimbo twat. Sharon had been glad to give her parents the finger, and had never seen them again.

"Excuse me, sir," she asked. Sharon was about to try something new. Who knows – it might just give her the result she wanted,

"Yes, Sharon?" he replied, his sense of danger instantly cutting in at the tone of Sharon's voice.

"I was wondering if I could have a lend of a chopper tomorrow," she continued cautiously. This was new territory for her, and she wasn't quite sure if she was doing it right. "You haven't assigned any duties to Kim, I mean Sergeant Tranh or Corporal Paklowski as yet. They would be happy to crew it."

"For what purpose?" he asked, although he had a fairly good idea.

Sharon's face coloured slightly when she replied, "The two warriors from the Ikran People we met offered us an invitation. I think it would be a good idea to accept their invitation – to improve relations with the Na'vi."

Renshaw didn't give an immediate response, giving the appearance of considering her request carefully. "I expect you will have the flight plan filed before nineteen hundred today, and I want a full written report within twenty-four hours of your return."

"Yes, Boss," said Sharon, her eyes glowing with gratitude. "You won't regret it."

"I hope not," he replied. "As you were."

As the Boss and Amala walked away, Sharon heard the young Omaticaya woman say, "That was a good thing you did, Ren'zhore. The Ikran People are a noble clan, and it is wise to cultivate their friendship."

The Boss chuckled and replied, "An old warrior once told me never to give an order that I knew would be disobeyed."

"A wise man, this old warrior," said Amala, nodding slowly. "The Omaticaya have many sayings like this one."

"Perhaps you could tell me of some of these sayings," said Renshaw. "I would like to hear them."

Sharon did not hear any more of the conversation. But then, she didn't need to. From the tone of the Boss' voice towards the young woman, she suspected it wouldn't be too long before they were doing the old ugly together.

Now, all she had to do was to round up her oppos to get ready for tomorrow's factory picnic, and finish the fucking board.

* * *

><p>An all-too-familiar roar made the warriors of the Ikran People grab for their weapons and look upwards. A kunsìp of the tawtute flew over their dwellings, high above the Eastern Sea on the clifftops of the land.<p>

They saw two young women hanging out the side of the evil green machine, waving to those below. Some of the children waved back, only to be scolded by their mothers, reminding them of the evil tawtute that would take them away if they misbehaved.

The kunsìp circled twice before clattering off northwards, along the coast.

"It's them!" cried out Maweypay excitedly to his cousin.

Alìmtaw was about to reply that of course it was Zharr'n and Tsa'peen, and the other sisters of their tsumuke'awsiteng, when a cool voice came from behind them, "Exactly who are 'them'?"

The two cousins turned around slowly to see Txonya, the woman who was both Tsahik and olo'eyktan to the Ikran People. Before Maweypay could start stammering out a response, Alìmtaw replied respectfully, "The uniltìranyu woman I spoke of meeting days ago, the one who could ride a wave as though it was an ikran or pa'li. That is who is in the kunsìp, and her sisters."

Txonya was an intimidating sight. The red body paint covering her torso and face made it seem as though she bathed in the blood of the hunted, but this display was not for show. She had led the Ikran People as one of the Fifteen Clans in the battle for Vitraya Ramunong, the battle against the tawtute. Txonya had more than proved herself worthy of her position. She smiled, chilling the blood of Alìmtaw. "I think I would like to meet this woman," stated Txonya. "What was her name?"

"Zharr'n," supplied Maweypay, before Alìmtaw could reply.

"An interesting name," commented Txonya coolly. "Unusual, I would call it – not a name that would be gifted to one of the People." She paused for a moment, before adding, "Alìmtaw, you said she had the skills of a tawtute warrior, I think."

"Srane," confirmed Alìmtaw reluctantly.

"Good," said the leader of the clan. "You go now to meet with the uniltìranyu, with your cousin. I will follow later. There are things that I must finish before I may leave to join you." She made a slight gesture with one hand and turned away, indicating that this conversation was over – at least for the moment.

* * *

><p>"We are in so much trouble," said Maweypay as he checked the harness of his ikran. Whenever he had previously attracted the attention of the olo'eyktan, the results had not been pretty.<p>

"I am not so sure," replied Alìmtaw. There had been a strange glint in the eyes of the clan leader, but he had been unable to interpret it.

"Pfft," spat his cousin. "Somehow, I don't know exactly how or when, we are both going to end up at the wrong end of her spear."

Alìmtaw laughed at the glum expression on Maweypay's face. "It is not all bad," he chuckled. "One of the women hanging out of the kunsìp was Tsa'peen. If I remember rightly you seemed to like her. A lot, if truth be told."

His cousin was as transparent as a shallow forest pool – Maweypay had been moping around the clifftops looking out to sea and sighing like a love-struck girl for the last week. "There is that," he grinned, his expression lightening immediately.

"We should best be on our way then," said Alìmtaw, mounting his ikran. "Za'u!"

* * *

><p>"It's disgusting," said Linda, sitting on the sun-warmed sand.<p>

Kim retorted, "I think it's rather sweet. They can hardly keep their hands off each other." Sabine and Sharon were cavorting in the shallows, splashing each other and pretending to be wrestling, but there appeared to be much more kissing and fondling the longer the play continued.

"I know when Sharon was human, she screwed anything with a heartbeat," commented Linda drily, idly wondering if the Australian had ever indulged in a spot of necrophilia as well. She shook her head in self-disgust – Sharon was pretty raw, but even she had standards, low as they might have been. "Male, female and everything in between. Sabine appears to be much the same, but I'm a little doubtful about going bi."

"Oh," exclaimed Kim, her face darkening. "I hadn't thought of that." She thought for a moment, tilting her head to one side as she considered the two Na'vi women playing in the surf, hardly even realising that she thought of them as Na'vi now. "If Na'dia was right about Uniluke, aren't all Na'vi women bisexual?"

"Yeah," replied Linda, who had discovered this little fact in her first tour of Pandora, when she was still human. "It just bothers me a little that there isn't any choice about it."

"Have you ever tried it?" asked Kim.

Linda turned in surprise to Kim, to find her golden eyes were only inches away from her own. Her heart began to hammer as Kim moved forward to capture Linda's lips with a gentle kiss. Suddenly, Linda found herself kissing back, and things started to get very interesting.

"Hey guys, get a room," said an amused voice with an Australian accent. "They're here."

Kim and Linda almost sprang apart, to see Sharon and Sabine standing over them, grinning. Sabine commented, "It's nice to see that they don't need the encouragement of Uniluke to get started."

"Not like us sluts," added Sharon.

Linda knew that no protestation she or Kim made would stop the teasing, so she just sniped back, "I'm glad to see you are all warmed up for your toy boys."

"Hey, she bites," observed Sabine.

Sharon laughed, "Paklowski is one of us. What else would you expect?"

* * *

><p>Alìmtaw hesitated as he approached Zharr'n. The woman looked as though she had been wrestling 'angtsìk – her torso was covered with fading bruises. "What happened?" he asked with concern, ignoring the customary greeting.<p>

"A friendly challenge," replied Zharr'n with a smile. "It is nothing."

He could not help but ask, "With whom? An entire herd of stampeding talioang?"

Zharr'n replied, "No. I fought Na'diakhudoshin of the Omaticaya. I had heard that she was a notable warrior, and wished to chance my arm."

Alìmtaw looked at her with growing respect. Anyone who fought the legendary palulukan woman from the stars usually ended up dead or incapacitated.

She continued, "We established that I was better at hand-to-hand combat by the merest fraction, although I do not think I would care to face her armed, as my skill with blades is much less." Zharr'n gestured, "There is no doubt she is as lethal with her blades as her sensei is with tooth and claw."

"I had wondered..." he started, and then started again. "When you claimed the skills of a tawtute warrior, I did not know if I believed you." He smiled ironically. "Tawtute do not have the greatest reputation for telling truth. Now, however...if you bested the palulukan woman in fair challenge, no matter what weapons were used, then you are a warrior indeed."

"There is truth, and then there is truth," said Zharr'n. "The meaning that is extracted depends on the manner of telling, and on the listening. As to my skills as a warrior, the most important one is that I am still alive, while others with greater ability are not."

Frowning, Alìmtaw remembered the old warriors of the clan talking of the wars against the tawtute, of how survival was more a matter of luck than skill. He had been too young to fight, even in the last clash when Na'diakhudoshin won her fame only a small number of years ago. Zharr'n sounded much like them, but she had the appearance of a young woman, even younger than he was.

"How old are you?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

Zharr'n laughed, and replied, "Old enough." She grabbed at his hand and commanded, "Come. I have something to show you."

Next to the kunsìp were two surfboards, the one he had ridden before, and another. He went to the unfamiliar surfboard and touched it in wonder, running his hand along the smoothly curving edge – no, the edge of the surfboard was called a rail, he remembered.

"It is a gift," said Zharr'n simply.

"I cannot..." he started.

Zharr'n punched him lightly on the shoulder, as though he was her brother and she was scolding him for some dereliction of sibling duty. "I took pleasure in its making," she told him. "Even though you surf poorly, there is no-one else on this world that can use it, so you might as well have it."

"I do not know what to say," he said, overwhelmed by the generosity of the gift. The skill and knowledge that had gone into its making was clear to any who gazed upon it, and the story that the image – the painting, if he used the tawtute word – the painting on the surfboard told of their first meeting. It had clearly been made by Zharr'n for him, and him alone.

"Thank you might be a good start," she suggested flippantly.

He was forgetting his manners. "Irayo," he said quickly, a little too quickly, and Zharr'n laughed at his embarrassment.

* * *

><p>On top of the highest dune on the small beach, Maweypay and Tsa'peen watched the two surfers working the shore break, both of them lying on their stomachs with their chins propped up on their hands.<p>

"My cousin isn't falling into the water as much as last time," observed Maweypay.

Tsa'peen agreed, "He is getting better."

"Why don't you surf like Zharr'n?" asked Maweypay curiously.

"On 'Rrta, Zharr'n was raised by the sea," replied Tsa'peen. "My clan lived high up in the mountains, far from the waves, on the other side of the world. Instead of surfing, I skied."

"What is 'skied'?" he asked. It was another strange tawtute word.

He listened incredulously to Tsa'peen's story of freezing cold winters and solid water falling from the sky as snow, covering the land in a white blanket, and how one could travel quickly across it using something called skis.

"I have heard of this white stuff called snow," he said, "But I have never known anyone who has seen such a thing."

"Well now you do," she answered.

* * *

><p>"I take it back," said Sharon. They were sitting on their boards beyond the shore break, bobbing up and down.<p>

"Take what back?" asked Alìmtaw.

"You do not surf poorly," she answered. When he started to smile, Sharon added the rider, "For a beginner."

His smile grew even broader. Not only did Sharon think Alìmtaw looked like a three day pass in Bangkok, but his earnestness and good humour were very appealing. She flicked her head back and asked flirtatiously, "Do you want to have a go?"

"What?" he asked. Surely she could not mean what he thought she did.

"The point break," she answered."What did you think I meant?"

She watched Alìmtaw cover up his embarrassment and confusion with a nod. "You think I am ready?" he asked.

"No one is ever ready for their first big wave," she answered. He gulped nervously, and she added seriously, "If you get wiped out, go deep. Don't worry about the board. I can always make another."

"There is something I haven't told you," he said, surprising Sharon. "The olo'eyktan is coming here, today, to exchange words with you."

"Is that so?" she asked. The big cheese of the Ikran People himself – Sharon supposed she should be honoured. Usually officers only wanted to see the back of her.

Alìmtaw agreed, "Srane. Her name is Txonya."

"Way to go Txonya!" she murmured to herself. Alìmtaw looked a little puzzled, and she laughed, thinking that Na'vi society was not as stratified on sex lines as humanity seemed to be. The glass ceiling was still alive and well. "Come, it's time. If we hang around any longer she'll turn up and spoil all the fun."

Much to his surprise, Alìmtaw managed to paddle out past the breaking surf without being drowned. The Eskimo roll really worked, even with surf this big.

"Don't worry, I'll pick a good wave for you," advised Zharr'n calmly.

Several waves went by, lifting them closer to the sky before dropping them back. Alìmtaw could not tell what was wrong with them, just having to accept her word.

"Go!" she shouted. "Paddle for your life!"

Alìmtaw did exactly as he was told. Before he knew it, he was perched on top of a wave looking down a sheer cliff-face of water. He could even see the bottom of the sea floor through the clear water. His heart was pounding in his chest as he stood up, and dropped down the face of the wave, screaming his lungs out, positive that he was about to die.

Somehow, the lessons that Zharr'n had been hammering into him came to the fore. He carved the bottom turn perfectly, climbing back up the face at tremendous speed. Alìmtaw felt the blood rushing through his veins, filled with a combination of abject terror and total exultation. He knew now why Zharr'n surfed – he had never been quite as alive as he was right now.

Then Alìmtaw made a tiny mistake – he glanced over his shoulder to look back at the wave breaking behind him, shifting his weight slightly forward. The board nosed in, flipping Alìmtaw face first like a slingshot. When he hit the water, it felt as hard as rock, and then the wave collapsed on him.

* * *

><p>"Holy crap!" said Linda, as she saw a surfboard fly at least ten metres into the air above a breaking wave. "What a wipe-out," she exclaimed.<p>

"Do you think he'll be ok?" asked Kim. Where Alìmtaw came off his board, the water was churning like the inside of a washing machine.

"He'll be fine, as long as he remembers what Sharon said," replied Linda. "She really is a good teacher, if you can understand what she is saying."

* * *

><p>Alìmtaw didn't know which way was up or down. All he could feel was the enormous power of the wave dragging him, twisting and turning him every which way. He was slammed into the rocky bottom, almost knocking the air out of his lungs. Suddenly, he saw a patch of lighter water, and swam up towards it.<p>

When his head broke the surface of the water, Alìmtaw dragged in the sweetest breath of air he had ever taken. He blinked to clear his eyes, and then saw the most terrifying sight in the world – a huge wave, breaking right on top of him. Without hesitation he dived under, right into the wave.

He repeated this cycle three times before he emerged into clear water. Alìmtaw looked around searching for his board, to see it being washed up on the beach. Zharr'n's sisters Kim and Linda were running down the beach to secure it, so at least he didn't have to go after the rotten thing. So he swam back into shore.

* * *

><p>"Kaltxi," said Sharon, her board under her arm.<p>

Alìmtaw opened his eyes. He was spreadeagled on the sand, looking as though he had been trampled by a herd of sturmbeest.

"Zharr'n," he said weakly, and sat up. He shook his head, and said, "That was...I don't have the words for it."

"Intense," supplied Sharon.

"Yes," responded Alìmtaw. "That is the right word. Intense." He stood up and asked, "Where is my board?"

"The girls have it," replied Sharon, wondering if he was going to wimp out. She wouldn't blame him if he did – he had really been through the entire washing cycle – although she would be a little disappointed.

"Good," he said, and scanned the empty sky. "If we hurry, there might be time to catch another wave before the olo'eyktan arrives."

As it turned out, they caught another three waves before a single ikran and its rider appeared above the cove.


	8. Chapter 8

Txonya circled her ikran twice around the small cove. She recognised the two ikran resting on the sandy beach as belonging to Alìmtaw and his clumsy cousin Maweypay. She was certain that this was the place – why else was there a kunsìp of the tawtute squatting there like a fkio squatting on its nest?

There were two women standing close to the kunsìp, holding weapons of the tawtute loosely in their hands, obviously not aimed at anyone, but ready for use. She applauded their caution.

Her eyes narrowed. A male – it had to be Maweypay – was dallying with a female on one of the highest dunes. It was well past time that one was mated, although she was thankful that none of the young women of the clan had shown interest.

She landed her ikran close to the other two and dismounted, caressing its head with an absent-minded stroke that was not diminished in its affection by its familiarity, before she strode across to the two uniltìranyu women. She did not bother with the standard greeting – they were not of the People, after all. "Where is the one called Zharr'n?" she asked the taller one, who was standing slightly forward of the other.

The woman pointed out to sea and said simply, "Out there."

Txonya's gaze followed the pointing finger to see an incredible sight. A woman was crouching on something, racing up the face of a huge wave at tremendous speed until she shot into the air. Her body seemed to hang in space for a brief moment, until she dived gracefully into the water waiting below.

"That is Zharr'n," added the uniltìranyu woman, a little unnecessarily. Who else would it be?

* * *

><p>Linda thought that not only was the Na'vi woman as arrogant as all shit, but she looked pretty scary as well. The red body and face paint was intimidating, but the most startling moment came when she opened her mouth to speak – her teeth had been filed to razor sharp points. Irreverently, she mused that it must have hurt like hell, and no doubt would cut her tongue to ribbons if she wasn't careful.<p>

If anything, her carriage and demeanour reminded Linda of no-one more than Mo'at, the Tsahik of the Omaticaya. Linda had no doubt that this woman was the clan leader of the Ikran People.

* * *

><p>Sharon's head broke the surface, and with an automatic gesture flicked the water out of her eyes. She loved going aerial off the back of a wave. It was more of a rush than dirt darting. And Sharon really was the fig jam – her board was only about fifty feet away. A few strokes and she'd have it between her legs again - better than opening bat in a fucking Ashes Test.<p>

She was more than tempted to back-up for another couple of sets before hitting the sand, but she had seen the ikran come circling in. No doubt it wasn't just some anonymous boggy, rather the bint with solid brass rather than birdshit on her shoulders that Alìmtaw had his loincloth in a twist about. However, she was a bloody long way out, and there was no way she was going to paddle all the fucking way in just to keep some fragrant Na'vi front bum happy. If it was so important this Txonya to have tea and sticky buns with her, it would be quicker riding a wave in all the way.

Alìmtaw was waiting for her to paddle back out, waving an arm at her. When she reached him, he said, "That was Txonya's ikran."

"I thought so," she answered. "You take the next wave, and I'll follow you in."

For someone who had done less surfing than a grommet, Alìmtaw really wasn't that bad, she thought as he took off. She let the next few waves go, until she saw a really big set building, and picked her wave. It was a fucking monster.

The drop in was as good as Sharon had ever done, and the ride was fucking copacetic – until she felt a prickling between her shoulder blades. She glanced behind her, and had time for a single thought – why the fuck had she left her shottie on the beach?

* * *

><p>"Oel ngati kameie, olo'eyktan," said Alìmtaw after he jogged up the beach, his board under one arm.<p>

Txonya sketched out a gesture, and was about to open her mouth when she was interrupted.

"There is something in the same wave that Zharr'n is riding," said Kim, pointing out to sea.

Both Txonya and Alìmtaw turned to look. There was a bulge in the wave, with something large and dark underneath. Txonya said regretfully, "I need not have come. That is a kxitx'payoang. The woman Zharr'n is as good as dead."

Alìmtaw's shoulders slumped. There was no escaping the peak predator of Pandora's oceans, not for one in the water.

Linda ran to the kunsìp and dragged out a tawtute weapon. It was long, sleek and deadly, dully gleaming a purposeful dark-grey. She dropped to the sand, tucking the weapon into her shoulder, worked some mechanism that sounded like 'chunk-chunk', and looked through its sighting mechanism. "Don't give up on me," she murmured, and pulled the trigger.

The sniper rifle boomed, its supersonic point five inch round flashing across to her target in less than a second. It hit the water and dramatically slowed, barely penetrating the target more than a couple of inches.

However, the target felt the blow. A huge shark-like fish breached the surface, lunging for its prey before it was ready.

It was clear that Zharr'n heard the boom of the rifle. She dived off her board into the water, just as the teeth of the kxitx'payoang snapped where she had been.

* * *

><p>Sharon plunged into the water, going deep. The power of the wave sucked her back, away from the thing that looked like a white pointer's nightmare. She drew her knife, hovering just above the rocky bottom, turning to where she thought the monster had gone.<p>

There it was, coming at her like an express train. Sharon's thumb pressed a button, bringing the highly illegal vibro-knife in her hand to life. It was almost upon her when she gave an almighty kick, turning over and thrusting her knife using the power of both her arms. Somehow she did not manage to drop the damned thing.

The vibrating monomolecular edge of the high-tech blade slid smoothly into the vulnerable underbelly of the predator as it raced over the top of Sharon. The eighteen inch long blade cut cleanly, slicing through the massive abdominal muscles, tendons and blood vessels. But what did the real damage was the speed and power of the shark-like creature, opening up a thirty foot long slash right down its belly and staining the water red.

Shit, she thought as it turned back towards her, trailing what seemed like most of its entrails. The fucker didn't know it was dead.

* * *

><p>The watchers on shore saw the water boil and turn red. It seemed that was it.<p>

Linda continued to sight down the scope, trying for a shot at the thing that had killed her friend, swearing under her breath, "Just one glimpse, you fucker. One glimpse and you're fucking toast." She was sighting on the middle of the bloodstain, when a familiar head broached the surface, flicked the water out of her eyes and started to swim for her surfboard.

"You lucky shit!" shouted Linda in English. "I'm going to fucking kill you!" She stood, grinning broadly, pointing, "Look at the crazy bitch!"

The watchers, both Na'vi and Avatars stood dumbly, mouths hanging open in astonishment, as a huge fish floated to the surface, exposing its white belly. The surging waves rolled the corpse over and over, pushing it into shore.

* * *

><p>Sharon was trembling in reaction when she reached the shore. She almost fell when she tried to stand in the knee-deep water, when Sabine, Linda and Kim ran up to embrace her.<p>

"Hi," she said shakily.

The three women didn't say anything. They just held her.

Eventually, Sabine said, "I suppose it would be too much to ask that you don't surf anymore."

Sharon half-laughed and half-sobbed, "The fucker dropped in on the most perfect wave I have ever seen."

"I thought as much," replied Sabine.

"There is someone here to see you," said Linda. "Txonya, the olo'eyktan of the Ikran People."

Sharon sniffed. There was a strong fishy scent in the air. She turned and looked up the beach towards the point, to see the corpse of the whatever-it-was rolling in the shallows. "In a moment," she said. "I want to get my knife back. It was a present from my grandfather."

The four women looked down at the huge fish. Sharon's first impression was right – it did look like a fucking enormous white-pointer shark, if you ignored the extra set of eyes.

"There's one that didn't get away, " commented Sabine drily, making the others chuckle.

Sharon pointed to the hole where the larger of the left eyes had been. "That was a fucking good shot, Linda," she said. "You took out one eye. I would be dead otherwise."

"I was fucking lucky," replied Linda, shivering slightly. "So were you."

The vibro-knife was still humming, buried up to its hilt about six inches behind the eye-sockets. Sharon reached for the blade and pulled it cleanly from the skull. "I'm never leaving shore again without my shottie and a fucking full load of grenade shells," she said. "This was too fucking hard-core for me." She paused for a moment to switch off the blade and sheathe it, before asking, "What kind of fish is it?"

Kim answered, "Txonya called it a kxitx'payoang."

"That's a fucking good name for it," replied Sharon, translating the name in her head. Death fish. She shivered again as she inspected the many rows of razor sharp triangular teeth in its jaws.

"Yeah," echoed the other three women.

Sharon wondered idly, "What do you reckon it tastes like?"

* * *

><p>"Oel ngati kameie, nawm'taronyu," said Txonya. She had never seen a feat to match this killing of a kxitx'payoang, by a hunter armed with nothing but a knife.<p>

"I was lucky, not great," replied the woman called Zharr'n, making a small gesture of disagreement with one hand. "If Linda had not made her shot, I would be dead."

Txonya did not reply, considering the woman standing before her. She was taller than most, and the muscles on her lean form were more prominent than on most women. She had a distinct impression that Zharr'n would not back down from any fight, no matter who or what her opponent was. "I am not so sure," she said.

"Why did you wish to see me?" asked Zharr'n.

Very few looked Txonya directly in the eye without some trepidation or nervousness. Over the years she had garnered a reputation as being somewhat implacable, to her regret. It seemed that this Zharr'n was definitely not in the category of the overwhelmed. "I was curious to see a uniltìranyu that could ride the waves," she replied, amused by the bluntness of this woman. "I wanted to see what kind of woman she was."

"And what kind of woman is she?"

"Interesting," smiled Txonya, showing her pointed teeth. Before she turned away to return to her ikran, she said, "Eywa ngahu."

"Eywa ngahu," echoed Zharr'n.

* * *

><p>Sharon wondered, what was all the fuss with Txonya about?<p>

* * *

><p>Txonya felt Alìmtaw trailing behind her. When she reached her restless ikran, she said soothing words to calm it, and turned to address the anxious male standing a respectful fifteen feet away. "If you wish to mate with this uniltìranyu woman, I will not oppose your choice," she told him.<p>

"Irayo, ma'sanok," he replied, as she mounted the restless beast. His mother's words rocked him back on his heels. How had she known that he was considering pursuing Zharr'n for his mate? He had not told anyone, not even his skxawng of a cousin.

The olo'eyktan and Tsahik of the Ikran People chuckled, "I suspect it will take more than my blessing to persuade Zharr'n to mate with you, ma'itan. You have set yourself a difficult task." She urged her ikran into the air, leaving her astonished son on the ground.

* * *

><p>Neither Sharon nor Alìmtaw felt like going back out on their boards that day. Instead, the party set to butchering the kxitx'payoang, carving off huge fillets and loading them onto the chopper, leaving hardly any room for the two door gunners. What did not fit in the cargo area was slung into a cargo net slung under the Samson.<p>

With some difficulty, they dragged the remains up the beach beyond the high-tide mark, where the two ikran set to filling their stomachs. What was left the scavengers could have. Sharon had insisted, as she did not want to attract any more aquatic predators to her favourite point break.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, kxitx'payoang tasted really good, although after the third straight meal of it, the entire Hell's Gate garrison started griping about the lack of dietary variety.<p>

Mind you, Kim complained about the lingering fishy odour in Samson Two-One for at least the next four weeks.


	9. Chapter 9

Sharon was pounding around the Hell's Gate perimeter again, soaked with sweat. She had maintained the relentless pace for forty-five laps, desperate to tire herself out, carrying her assault weapon and a full combat load of ammunition as well.

She had awoken screaming again last night. The nightmare last night had been a bad one. The faces of the jihadis storming the hill had been hidden in their fucking facerags, as usual, but a new element had been added. The rag fell away from the one that was going to kill her, to reveal the face of the fucking kxitx'payoang, its mouth full of teeth gaping wide.

That was when she woke.

If Sharon was exhausted, the nightmares would stay away. For a little while.

At least the dream hadn't been the worst one.

* * *

><p>Sabine was waiting at the startfinish line. "I think that's quite enough," she said calmly, standing in Sharon's way.

"I haven't bloody finished," panted Sharon. "Get out of the fucking way."

"You can't run from what is chasing you," replied Sabine. "It doesn't work like that."

"What would the fuck you know?" snarled Sharon. She moved to sidestep Sabine, only to be blocked.

"I do have a doctorate in psychology, you know, among the other ones," replied Sabine. "It's not normal to wake up screaming night after night."

Fuck, thought Sharon. It was just her luck to fall in love with a brainiac – a brainiac who cared.

"Although, I have to admit I don't mind the way you relax to get back to sleep," smiled Sabine.

Sharon felt her face grow hot. "Ok," she said, dropping her pack to the ground, but not releasing her firearm. "What do you propose?"

Sabine picked up the abandoned pack and shouldered it. "Come with me."

They walked past the shantytown of temporary accommodation hurriedly thrown up to house the garrison. The old human accommodation at Hell's Gate wasn't anywhere near big enough, and besides was needed to house the few human traitors that had stayed behind on Pandora after the battle of Vitraya Ramunong.

The housing modules were ugly, mass-produced products of the stereolithography plant. Sharon was happy to see them pulled down and slowly replaced by longhouses. The standardised design reminded her of firebases in the Hindu Kush, where she had spent entirely too much of her adult life.

They arrived at the gym, the shade cloth over the large space flapping slightly in the breeze. "What are we doing here?" asked Sharon.

Sabine was pulling on a helmet and padding. "I don't think the whole Freudian gig on the couch will work for you," she said bluntly. "You'll talk when you are ready."

"Doesn't the Hippocratic oath apply here?" asked Sharon hopefully. There was something in there about scablifters not fucking their patients, and she had a distinct memory of being woken this morning by Sabine licking her pink canoe clean.

"Only if you're human," retorted Sabine. "And don't think you'll get away with it by claiming you have duty assignments. You're on indefinite sick leave. I cleared it with the Colonel this morning."

"What about you?" tried Sharon. "You're not on sick leave."

A very crooked and devious expression appeared on Sabine's face. "I only have an hour of clinic duty a day," she said. "The rest of the time is my own, as long as the Chief Medical Officer thinks I am spending it appropriately. As it happens, I am studying Augustine's treatise on traditional Omaticaya medical practice, as it is the authoritative work in the area. Our supplies of off-world pharmaceuticals won't last forever, so I have to bone up if I don't want to become an unemployed layabout. I can study while I'm watching you."

"But you're the bloody CMO," objected Sharon. "It's not fair."

"Since when have you ever been concerned about fair?" posed Sabine, curling an enquiring eyebrow at the disgruntled soldier. She lifted her forearms up, displaying the sparring pads she had donned. "Put up, or shut up," she teased.

Sharon gritted her teeth to stop herself from saying what she wanted, and started to put on some sparring gear. It wasn't often that someone bested her at her own game, but it got her goat that both Renshaw and Sabine had pulled a fast one on her. And what was worse, she still liked the both of them for it.

* * *

><p>Renshaw watched the entire exchange between the CMO and Sharon at the gym with interest. Neither of them had noticed that he was working out, nor had they noticed that Amala was spotting for him, being entirely too self-absorbed in their own affairs.<p>

Amala surprised him by commenting, "You like the warrior Zharr'n very much." There was no hint of jealousy in her voice at all, which was refreshing in a female when she was talking about another female – at least in his experience.

"Yes," he answered, wincing slightly. Sharon was laying into Sabine pretty hard, striking the sparring pads with every ounce of her power. "She reminds me of me, when I was much younger." It wasn't the only reason. Sharon was one of the most highly qualified soldiers under his command, skilled in virtually every form of infantry weapon and tactic – including, he had noticed, an expert rating in MVC - microgravity/vacuum combat. There were a total of seventeen other personnel on Pandora with similar ratings, including Renshaw. Just what had Zhong been up to by encouraging his granddaughter to volunteer for this mission, and why were there so many MVC-qualified grunts here? They were as rare as hen's teeth.

It worried him that the Doc had told him Sharon had an undiagnosed case of PTSD. How in hell had that slipped through the screening process? Unless, of course, Zhong had been was playing games with personnel selection. Renshaw had the biggest bunch of misfits in this unit of any military known to man. Or Na'vi, he bet – not that they had an established military, although they were a warrior culture.

How many more had undiagnosed psychological problems, borderline or otherwise?

"You are worried, Ren'zhore," stated Amala, loading two more plates onto the bar.

Renshaw did not immediately respond, instead leaning back on the incline bench and testing the feel of the bar. He grunted explosively, lifting the weights into the air, every muscle in his body straining. One, two, three repetitions, and he let the weights fall back into the supports with a crash. "Yes," he replied, wiping his face with a towel.

"I have to return to the clan tomorrow," said Amala suddenly. "To partake of Uniluke."

His heart skipped a beat. Renshaw had become accustomed to Amala's presence in the short time she had been at Hell's Gate. "I will miss you," he said, much to his surprise.

Amala replied, "There is a way that means I will not need to go. My sisters will understand, if I choose this way." She offered her hand to Renshaw, and in a daze he took it.

"Are you..." he started, and then hesitated.

She nodded. "I would have you Choose me."

At that moment, Renshaw realised he had been lonely for a very long time. He had always justified this by reminding himself of the exigencies of command, of the duty to his men and his mission, but his heart was still empty. Or it had been empty. This Na'vi woman, by just being there, had found a weakness in his defences and slipped inside. He smiled back, "I would Choose you."

"Come then," she murmured, pulling gently at his hand.

No-one noticed them leaving the perimeter and entering the forest.

* * *

><p>There was a minor flap when no-one could locate the CO that day, but he reappeared before sunset, as though nothing had happened, accompanied by Amala, as had been the case for the last few weeks.<p>

The garrison of Hell's Gate breathed a collective sigh of relief. Colonel Renshaw was a damned good CO, and none of them wanted to lose him to one of the dangers of this perilous world.

What they did not realise was that was exactly what had happened.

* * *

><p>Sabine was as good as her word. The only time Sharon was alone was for an hour after oh-eight-hundred, when she ran her perimeter laps, and Sabine did her clinic hour. The devious woman had extracted from Sharon a promise that she wouldn't skive off, getting her to swear on the honour of the regiment. Sabine was no dummy.<p>

While Sharon shot off her load at the range, Sabine calmly sat in the background studying her data tablet, bright orange ear muffs prominent on her head. One day she offered to teach Sabine how to shoot. Sabine just smiled, took the offered weapon and shot a perfect round using only the iron sights. She didn't even bother activating the targeting computer, or the scope for that matter.

It was then that Sharon remembered that Olympic biathlon involved both cross-country skiing and shooting, with a premium on rapid accurate fire, using ancient bolt action rifles. And Sabine had narrowly missed selection in the German national team when she was seventeen.

Sabine safed the rifle, returned it and went back to studying her data tablet, all without saying a single word.

She didn't need to.

Bitch.

There were a few septic grunts from the Special Forces community, and a couple of Spetznatz as well. They managed to persuade the Boss to put together an assault training facility, where they could practice door kicking, splitting up teams between red and blue. Surprisingly enough the Boss insisted that Sharon get an invite to playtime, even though she was the only slit on the varsity team. Of course, the septics always wanted to be blue – it was some ingrained John Wayne good guy program set in their genetic code at birth – and there was always an argument over who would go point.

So they took turns.

Who the fuck was John Wayne anyway?

After the first couple of run-throughs, they even stopped complaining about having to play with a girl - especially after she took out one of the Delta cunts with nothing but a blunt spoon in her hand.

When he griped about it afterwards, saying that according to the ROE she was playing a non-combatant, she told him to harden up. It could have been much worse – she could have used a fork.

After that little exercise the cunts started calling her Spoons.

At first, Sabine sat in one of the umpire's chairs overlooking the playhouse, her nose buried in her data tablet, until one of the Spetznatz splat-cats exercised some Slavic charm and persuaded her to play a non-combatant. All she had to do was sit in one of the fake rooms while the blue team cleared the playhouse of tangos.

Sharon had to give it to Sabine. She didn't flinch once – not with the flash-bangs, the automatic fire, the yelling as bodies flew through doors, windows and walls – not once. She was totally engrossed by her data tablet, helped a little by her earplugs and reactive safety glasses.

Usually it was hard to get fakes to play more than once in the playhouse.

The only hiccup came when the exercise was hostage retrieval, and one of the blue team grunts tried to haul Sabine out over his shoulder like a sack of spuds. When he tried to take away her data tablet during the exfiltration, Sabine bit him on the ass, drawing blood - a lot of blood.

She made up for it by treating the wound on the spot – in front of all the other players – advising that speed in treating bites was of the essence, due to the risk of infection. The injured party did not appreciate the peanut gallery or their gratuitous comments regarding the size and shape of both the wound and his ass.

Sharon resolved never to try to separate Sabine from her data tablet. Unless she used sex – Sabine seemed quite pliable in her attitudes when it came to sex.

It was much the same when Sharon was shaping more boards down the back of the maintenance hangar. Sabine just sat quietly in one corner, reading away and making notes.

* * *

><p>A few days after Sharon started shaping again, she was contemplating a block of foam when Sabine decided to start the therapy. She put down her data tablet, got to her feet, stretched luxuriously, and wandered over to Sharon's workbench.<p>

"I meant to ask," said Sabine. "Why are you making more surfboards?"

"Shaping," corrected Sharon absent-mindedly, without taking her eyes or hands from the block of foam. "You don't make boards, you shape them."

"Ok," replied Sabine. "Why are you shaping more surfboards?"

"They break, especially in big surf," answered Sharon, running one hand slowly alone one edge of the block. Sabine wasn't quite sure that the woman was conscious she was talking – Sharon was in some kind of trance. "It's like metal fatigue. With constant flexing under stress, tiny fractures build up in the core, and then the board snaps under load. That's why I put a timber stringer in mine, to increase the flexibility and strength."

A faint smile crossed her face as she admitted, "I like to shape, too. Giving soul to a board where there was nothing is an act of grace."

Sabine had only heard Sharon talk like this once before, in the aftermath of Uniluke, without swearing or using that verdammt Aussie military slang. She would have to proceed carefully.

"Is that why you paint your boards?" she asked quietly.

Sharon's hands hesitated for a moment before she answered, "Yes. I paint things that I see, or that I feel."

"Always good things?"

There was another hesitation, an extended hesitation before there was an answer. "I shaped two boards here before I got one to go right."

By the way her jaw clamped shut, Sabine knew she had pushed Sharon as far as she would go, when Sharon surprised her by adding, "They are under the groundsheet, over there." Sharon pointed to her right. "I was going to burn them, but I hadn't got around to it. Cover them up after you've finished."

The first one looked wrong, when Sabine realised there was a subtle twist through the entire length of the board. Despite this imperfection, Sharon had finished the board, and painted it.

The battlefield was strewn with human corpses. A faceless female soldier with flowing blond hair was carrying the upper half of a male torso in a travesty of a fireman's lift, firing an assault rifle one-handed. The target was a beardless boy, bent over backwards and arms flung out as his brains sprayed out behind him from a perfect headshot.

Sabine almost vomited at the gruesome realism of the scene, despite her surgical training. She hurriedly flicked the groundsheet back over it, and turned to the second board.

From a physical perspective, the board appeared to be perfect – or at least it did to her. The image on this board seemed almost serene, showing a treeless gibber desert. A red sun hung low in the yellow sky, while a Na'vi woman strode across the plain. It seemed innocuous enough, until Sabine looked more closely. What she had thought were red gibber stones were thousands of bloodstained human skulls.

"I hadn't gone outside the perimeter to get timber for the stringers," said Sharon dreamily. "That's why they aren't any good. I had to sneak out one night, against regs."

"What do they show?" asked Sabine gently.

"They gave me a gong, you know," said Sharon, her voice regretful. "Over half of the ragheads I killed were under sixteen. It was sending lambs to the slaughter. We were trained killers, and they were just babies."

"It's not your fault," said Sabine.

"I didn't have to shoot back," whispered Sharon.

"How many of your friends did you save?"

"Four. I saved four, but I couldn't save Boof," said Sharon, and then she burst into tears.

Sabine embraced Sharon fiercely, and whispered to her, "You chose life. They would have killed all of you."

"I know," wept Sharon. "But why do I feel so dirty?"

"Shhh," said Sabine, stroking her hair. "It's ok." She suspected that Sharon had bottled all this inside her, never allowing herself to grieve for what she had lost, in her need to be the tough warrior. This was an important step forward.

She was so relieved at the outpouring of emotion, Sabine forgot to ask about the image on the second board.


	10. Chapter 10

"Gotcha!" shouted Sabine from the undergrowth. She emerged victorious with a kali'weya held firmly in her grasp, sting pointed carefully away from her body.

"I still don't see why we couldn't ask for some from the smurfs," griped Sharon. She still had a thing about creepy crawlies with stingers and too many legs, but she had insisted on coming along into the forest to keep Sabine safe. In her opinion, despite her many fine qualities, Sabine had the situational awareness of an off cut. Her focus on the task at hand was generally to the exclusion of everything else – more like a dick swinger rather than the slit she was. Still, if you had a sucking chest wound, Sabine was the right woman for the job. Nothing would distract her from keeping you alive.

Horses for courses, thought Sharon.

"We need to be able to gather the ingredients for Uniluke ourselves," replied Sabine. "The Omaticaya have been very kind, but they have their own lives to live." She dropped the pseudo-scorpion in a clear plastic sample box rather than the traditional pottery crock, and quickly sealed the lid. It scurried about the box, trying to get out. Sabine frowned at it, wondering why it wasn't calm. Ninat had told her that once it was contained there would be no problems.

"I think the sucker needs to be in the dark," suggested Sharon.

"You might be right," admitted Sabine, studying the critter in the box. "Here, hold it while I take off my backpack."

Very reluctantly Sharon took the sample box in her hands. The monster-sized yabbie with a stinger was trying to poison its way out. Just as well the air holes were far too small for the scary bugger to escape, or for the stinger to penetrate – she hoped. Nevertheless, Sharon had made sure her hands were not covering any of the air holes. "What are you doing about brewing the tirea'tutee?" she asked cautiously. Sharon had almost rotted her brains with an unfortunate jungle juice episode in Borneo during the Caliphate Insurrection. She was not eager to repeat the experience.

"I've already mixed up three batches and run a few chemical analyses against a sample I got from Ninat," said Sabine, unzipping her backpack. "Each one was a perfect match. They tasted pretty good too."

"You tried it?" demanded Sharon incredulously. She had thought Sabine had been a little distracted the last couple of days.

"Only a sip," admitted the Hell's Gate C.M.O. "I had to make sure the tirea'tutee was safe to use, so we can celebrate Uniluke tomorrow. It only took around an hour and a half for my head to stop buzzing."

Sharon shook her head in amazement. "You're madder than cut snakes."

Sabine retrieved the sample box, shoved it in her pack and quickly zipped it up. "You can talk," she retorted. Constant exposure to Sharon's highly idiosyncratic version of English had made understanding her much simpler, although Sabine thought that cut snakes would be angry rather than mad. "After what you've told me the past week, I can't believe you're still alive."

Sharon grinned, "Game as Ned Kelly, and unlike him, I'm going to shuffle off through old age."

"More likely murdered by a jealous lover," laughed Sabine. She held the backpack to her ears, listening for the scrabbling from the kali'weya, and heard nothing but silence. It seemed that Sharon had been right – the little beast was much calmer in captivity when it was dark. Perhaps she should transfer it to a traditional pottery crock rather than keeping it in the sample box.

"Are we done?" asked Sharon. "If we go now, we can be back at base in time to fang in at the fatcans for elevenses, unless the tucker fuckers have fitted the nosh into a scranbag. Sometimes I reckon they could turn jack rats into canteen medals without any intervening steps."

Then again, Sabine still had trouble understanding Sharon when she really cut loose. However, she had the vague impression that she was keen to return to Hell's Gate for lunch. "Ok, darling," she agreed, wondering exactly what she was agreeing to. "As long as fish isn't on the menu." What the cooks had done with the kxitx'payoang fillets was criminal.

* * *

><p>Maweypay was humming happily as he checked his ikran's harness. It seemed he was looking forward to going to the tawtute place, or more to the point, seeing Tsa'peen.<p>

Alìmtaw, on the other hand, was feeling distinctly ambivalent about the whole affair. The prospect of flying over the multitude of weapons at Hell's Gate left him more than a little nervous. However, what was worrying him more was the attitude of his mother. Rather than trying to run his life as she usually did, instead she was standing back with an amused smile on her face. It was almost as though she was expecting him to fail and break into a thousand pieces. No doubt she would enjoy telling him exactly what he had done wrong, just like she always did when she came in to put all the fragments back together.

Yes, she would really enjoy that.

"Kaltxi, ma'itan," said a voice from over his shoulder, making him leap into the air. It then stated, "You are going to the tawtute place."

How did she do that? She always appeared when he was having uncharitable thoughts about her, leaving him with a guilty expression on his face, so she always knew when he was planning to do something the way he wanted to, rather than doing it her way.

"Yes, mother," he replied. There was no point trying to hide the truth. She could see right through him.

"Good," she replied. "I hope you have a fitting gift for this Zharr'n woman. A gift such as her surfboard must be replied to with one of equal value."

He nodded. "Yes, I have." No doubt she was going to insist on seeing his response, and tell him that it was inadequate.

"I am glad," replied his mother. She paused for a moment, adding to his surprise, "I am proud of you, ma'itan. You bring great credit to our People."

Alìmtaw's mouth fell open. His mother had never said anything like that to him in his life. She stepped forward, placed a finger under his jaw and gently closed it. "Just keep your idiot cousin from standing in front of an angry palulukan," she added, and kissed him on the cheek. "Eywa ngahu."

"Eywa ngahu," he replied, a strange mix of feelings in his breast.

* * *

><p>The two ikran landed smoothly on a roosting place, the tallest of the tawtute buildings. Alìmtaw was not surprised to see an armed uniltìranyu appear to ask in very bad Na'vi, "I See You, warriors. Who do you seek?"<p>

"We wish to see Zharr'n," said Alìmtaw.

"And Tsa'peen," added his cousin.

"Spoons and the Doc," said the uniltìranyu mysteriously. "They went out into the forest this morning – no, wait. They are coming in the main gate. I'll let them know you are here." He placed his hand to his neck, muttered softly to himself and cocked his head slightly to one side, as though he was listening to something. "They will meet you at the base of this tower." He pointed to a steel ladder fixed to the side of the building.

"Irayo," said Maweypay, and raced to climb down the structure.

Alìmtaw moved to follow his cousin, when the uniltìranyu said, "Wait." He hesitated briefly, when the stranger said, "Your name is Alìmtaw, right?"

"Srane," replied Alìmtaw, wondering how this man knew his name.

The stranger pursed his lips and made a long descending whistle. He said. "You are a braver man than anyone I know."

Now he really was curious. "Why?" asked Alìmtaw.

"You're the one who has interest in Spoons," replied the man. Alìmtaw must have had a puzzled expression on his face as the man added, "You like Zharr'n."

Did everyone know of his interest in this woman? "Yes," confirmed Alìmtaw.

The man shrugged. "She is a...um." It appeared that he was struggling for the right word or phrase. "Difficult woman," he finished, although he did not look satisfied with his choice of words.

"No more than my mother," answered Alìmtaw, thinking that Zharr'n could not be nearly as difficult as the woman who had birthed and raised him. The man muttered something in the tawtute language in a commiserating tone, clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner and wished him well.

As Alìmtaw slid down the ladder, he wondered what a _porr parr'star't_ was.

* * *

><p>Sharon smiled as Sabine ran towards Maweypay. Her lover had it bad for the male Na'vi. Curiously enough, Sharon wasn't jealous – well, only a little bit jealous. "Hey, you'll frighten the horses!" she yelled out in Na'vi as Maweypay grabbed Sabine, and spun her about, feet dangling in the air.<p>

The embrace at the base of the control tower suddenly ended. Maweypay looked puzzled as he asked, "There are pa'li here? I did not know the uniltìranyu rode pa'li."

"No, skxawng," said Sabine affectionately. "It is just a saying of the uniltìranyu."

"Oh," replied Maweypay.

A familiar figure slid down the control tower external ladder as though he had been doing it all his life, and Sharon's heart fluttered briefly, before she told herself to stop being so girly. "Oel ngati kameie, Alìmtaw," she said gravely.

The Na'vi warrior dipped his head slightly, and made the gesture of greeting in reply. "It is good to see you, Zharr'n," he said.

The two people gazed awkwardly at each other, both clearly uncomfortable and not knowing what to say. It had been different on the beach. Maweypay coughed meaningfully, "Stxeli."

Alìmtaw glanced gratefully towards his cousin for the less than subtle reminder. "Zharr'n, I have brought you a gift," he said, slipping the bow off his torso. "This is for you."

Sharon took the bow from Alìmtaw, holding it by the haft. It was different to any of the bows that she had seen Na'vi carry before, when she remembered something from her school days. It was the same shape and form as a Mongolian compound recurve bow, like those that Genghis Khan had used to conquer half the world.

"Hometrees do not grow in the forest near the sea," said Alìmtaw. "The Ikran People must use other materials to make our bows."

He continued to talk as Sharon studied the bow, describing how it was made of laminations of wood, bone and cartilage, held together with windings of sinew and glue made from the swim bladder of the kxitx'payoang that she had killed – or more to the point, had nearly killed her.

Sharon interrupted him by asking, "You made this?"

"Srane," he replied, dipping his head slightly in acknowledgement, partly to hide the darkening of his face.

"It is beautiful," she whispered, her eyes bright, but then her face fell. "I do not know how to shoot."

"Come," he said. "I will teach you."

* * *

><p>Strangely enough, there was an archery range at the tawtute place. Alìmtaw had not expected this.<p>

Zharr'n saw his surprise, and told him that the olo'eyktan of the Uniltìranyu brought a bow from 'Rrta, and used it to practice.

"The tawtute use bows?" he queried.

"Only for sport," she replied, unslinging the tawtute firearm from her shoulder. "For many years we have used only guns for hunting and for war." Zharr'n lent the weapon against a young tree. "What now?" she asked.

Alìmtaw made a gesture to her clothing. "You must take your garment off," he requested. She flicked up an eyebrow and chuckled, somehow making him feel embarrassed. "The upper one, only," he amended. "The lesson will go quicker if I can see if your muscles and stance are correct."

Zharr'n removed her shirt, displaying her flesh. She was wearing the colourful breast garment that she had worn on the beach under the ugly tawtute clothing. Dressed thus, she looked much more beautiful than she had in the ugly tawtute clothing. Without asking, he took her arm and quickly laced up a leather bow-guard on her right forearm. "To protect your skin from the string," he told her, trying to ignore the sweet fragrance of her scent. "I hope you do not mind. I made it from the skin of the kxitx'payoang you slew. Much of the bow was made from its bones and cartilage also."

"I would rather wear its skin that it wear mine," she quipped, making him smile.

She listened seriously as he told her how to hold the bow, in a firm but not rigid grip. Alìmtaw made a subtle adjustment to her grip on the haft, and told her to repeat it several times. Before long he moved on to the drawing of the string.

Zharr'n was an excellent student. Unlike many of the young of the clan he had taught, she did not dispute any of what he said, instead doing exactly as he showed. The questions she asked were intelligent, often anticipating what he was about to show her. When he queried her on this matter, she smiled and told him that she too was a teacher, a teacher of combat with hand and foot. The first thing she had to master as a teacher was how to learn. He nodded in understanding. This woman was indeed wise in things other than the riding of waves.

Sharon was enjoying the lesson, even though she had not fired a single shot as yet, and they had been at the range for well over an hour. She knew that it was important to learn and understand the basics of technique for any complex skill such as archery.

"Good," said Alìmtaw. He unslung the quiver from his shoulder, extracted an arrow, and leaned the quiver against the tree, next to her assault rifle.

When she took the arrow from him, an involuntary small shiver rippled through her body. The arrowhead looked all too familiar to her – it was a large razor sharp triangular-shaped tooth.

Alìmtaw nodded, understanding her surprise. "The teeth of the kxitx'payoang are highly prized as arrowheads. They are strong, hold an excellent edge and rarely shatter."

"You made these shafts also?" she asked. There were at least twelve in the quiver. When he nodded, she realised what he had been doing in the weeks since the adventure on the beach. It must have been an enormous investment in time for him, and Sharon felt her heart grow warm.

Perhaps it was not so surprising. She wouldn't take her shirt off for just any bloke.

* * *

><p>"For a beginner, you do not shoot badly," teased Alìmtaw, remembering her words on the beach. After her first few shots, Zharr'n began to get the feel of the bow, and hit the target every time. Slowly, they moved back along the length of the range until Zharr'n was shooting from the backmost marker of the range.<p>

She had fallen into a classic action without needing to have been told or corrected, each single shot like a line of a song. After she had shot off three rounds and fetched back her shafts, Alìmtaw became aware that there was a small audience of a very large uniltìranyu male and a young Na'vi woman – he thought she was of the Omaticaya by the markings on her loincloth. They were both carrying bows.

"Zharr'n shoots well," commented the large male quietly, so as not to disturb the shooter. "A credit to her teacher."

"Irayo," replied Alìmtaw. "You are too kind." He wondered who this man was as he watched Zharr'n make another shot.

"Ren'zhore speaks truth," growled the woman. "You should not be so modest."

Alìmtaw turned in surprise at hearing the man's name. "I am sorry," he said. "You are olo'eyktan of the Uniltìranyu, and I did not recognise you." Zharr'n had told her of this man, and how much she admired him.

"There is nothing to forgive," replied Ren'zhore, his voice kind.

* * *

><p>"Trooper!" called out a familiar voice in English.<p>

Sharon swore softly under her breath. She had been having such fun, but the Boss was the Boss. Easing the bow string and lowering her bow, she turned towards the CO. Hmmm, she thought. The chippie was with him as well. Amala had been sticking to the top brass like scran stuck to a date roll for the last couple of weeks. Sharon lowered her bow and turned towards her audience. "Yes, Boss?" she asked.

"I hate to interrupt your archery lesson," he said, "But you are expected at the playhouse for a run through in five."

"Shit!" she snarled. In her pleasure at seeing Alìmtaw, her promise to arc-up with the playhouse shitheads today had been entirely forgotten. Sometimes she had less brains than a pack of ponties.

Renshaw grinned at her and said, "I'm sure your guest would love to watch you in action."

Sharon replaced the arrow in the quiver, and almost flew down the range to retrieve her shafts. On her return, she grabbed Alìmtaw, nodded in acknowledgement to the CO, and ran for the playhouse, almost dragging the Na'vi along with her.

* * *

><p>When they arrived, one of the Ranger xongabongers called out, "Hey, Spoons! Good to know you're not going commando on us! Is the downstairs like the upstairs?"<p>

Fuck. She had forgotten to grab her shirt. "You'll never know if I freeball or not," she snapped. All the gear was laid out on the tables, and most of the pogos had almost finished belting up. Sharon removed her bow and quiver, laying them on the table. She grabbed a vest and hauled it on, quickly doing up the buckles.

"Spoons, catch!" called a Spetznatz veggie, tossing three blue-taped mags at her.

Sharon plucked them out of the air, quickly thumbed the rounds out and started reloading them. Good, they were all blanks. She was pleased to note that none of the shitheads challenged her on checking her mag loads, even though she was late.

"What is this?" asked Alìmtaw curiously, looking over her shoulder as she reloaded.

"Battle practice," she answered. "There are two hostages somewhere in that building." Sharon pointed to the roofless playhouse. "It is the blue team's task to get them out alive without casualties. The red team will try to prevent that."

"You are doing this with real weapons?" he asked.

Sharon ejected the magazine in her assault rifle and cleared the action twice. The round up the spout flew into the air, and she plucked it out of the air to show him. "This is a live round," she told him, showing him the cartridge. "The ones we use in the playhouse do not have a bullet. They just go bang."

"So this a practice challenge, between groups of warriors," said Alìmtaw, nodding his head. "So no-one gets hurt."

She laughed. "That's the theory," she told him. "In practice, however...some of the players do not play well with others."

"Spoons!" called out one of the soldiers with blue tape around his helmet. "Pull the lead out!"

Quickly, she removed the live magazines from her trouser pouches and replaced them with the blue taped magazines. "Alìmtaw," she said, pointing to a rickety looking structure. "Go sit up there with the umpire. He will explain what is happening." Absent-mindedly she kissed him on the cheek and gave him a gentle shove, before she donned her knee and elbow pads, and slung on her helmet.

"Glad you could join us, Spoons," said the Ranger xongabonger, sarcastically. "Who's the local?"

"None of your fucking business," she snapped, a little on edge. It had been almost two weeks since she last celebrated Uniluke, and like most of his kind the Ranger was a real fuckwit. Sharon loaded a mag and cycled the action. "Are we doing this, or what?"

* * *

><p>Alìmtaw's cheek was tingling as he climbed the scaffolding. Had Zharr'n really just kissed him?<p>

* * *

><p>Tsa'peen grinned at Maweypay and handed him two soft yellow things that looked more like grubs than anything else. "Put these in your ears," she advised him. "It will get very loud soon, and your ears will ring for many days if you do not use these."<p>

Maweypay looked a little doubtful, and wondered what the hell he was doing here, sitting in the corner of a room in a strange roofless tawtute building. A faceless uniltìranyu soldier wearing one of their helmets told him in heavily accented Na'vi, "I have to tie you up now." Something like razorpalm leaves went around his ankles and thighs. He saw Tsa'peen lean forward so her hands could be tied behind her back, so he did likewise.

"Are you comfortable?" asked the soldier, his voice filled with concern.

Maweypay thought it was a very strange question to be asking a captive, even if as Tsa'peen said this was play. "Not really," he replied truthfully, surreptitiously testing his bonds.

The soldier laughed, and said, "You'll be fine." The soldier then carefully fitted him with a visored helmet, asking, "Are you good?"

Maweypay nodded, thinking this was the most appropriate answer, and the soldier whacked him on the head, telling him, "A minute or two and all the fun starts. You'll love it."

He wasn't so sure, and took a doubtful glance at Tsa'peen. Her head was resting back against the wall, and a small rasping sound was barely audible through his earplugs and helmet.

Tsa'peen had dozed off.

* * *

><p>The uniltìranyu at the top of the scaffolding offered him a hand up. "Irayo," he said as he took a seat, overlooking what Zharr'n called the playhouse.<p>

"You're Alìmtaw?" asked the uniltìranyu. When he nodded in response, the stranger said, "Call me Fingers." There was a slight pause until he continued, "It was good of your cousin to volunteer to be a hostage. Sometimes it is difficult to get people to join the fun."

"I see," replied Alìmtaw, his eyes narrowing. Deep in the maze of the playhouse he could see a bound male alongside a woman, his face obscured by a helmet. His loincloth bore the clan markings of the Ikran People. It seemed that his cousin was already standing in the way of the palulukan. "Maweypay is often helpful," he said. He paused for a moment and said, "Zharr'n said you would explain what is about to happen."

"I'd better do what Spoons says, otherwise I'll be in big trouble," said the man wrily.

"Why you call Zharr'n Spoons?" asked Alìmtaw.

Fingers gave a chuckle. "Zharr'n was playing a hostage a couple of weeks ago, and the blue team weren't doing so well. They were being held in a room designated as a food preparation area. She slipped her bonds, grabbed a soup ladle and disabled the hostage guard – that would be me – and took my weapon, before she shot her own way out, killing everyone on both red and blue teams. She claimed as a hostage she wouldn't be able to tell the good guys from the bad. Ever since then we have called her Spoons."

"That sounds like the woman I know," he replied, thinking of the kxitx'payoang. At least if she accepted his suit, she would not be overawed by Txonya. Alìmtaw was not sure if he would survive such an honour.

"Spoons truly is a work of art," agreed Fingers, and then he proceeded with the explanation. The scenario was that the blue team was to recover the hostages covertly if possible. To make things a little more difficult, they did not know the interior layout of the building, or the room in whcih the hostages were being held.

* * *

><p>Sharon's stomach rumbled. In her pleasure of seeing Alìmtaw today, she had managed to skip lunch. Normally, this would not be a problem, except that Sabine had made her get up at oh-far-too-bloody-early to go chasing after the kali'weya for Uniluke, and as a result she had missed breakfast as well.<p>

"Jesus, Spoons," murmured someone anonymously. "Can't you keep it down? Someone over the other side of the perimeter could hear your gut roar."

"Thanks, guys," she muttered. The blue team were against the wall either side of the front door, about to start kicking doors. "One, two, three, go!"

One of the team members shoved a door cracker against the biometric reader. Less than a second later, the door lock clicked open, the door was yanked open and the blue team poured inside.

"Fuck!" swore Sharon. The large room behind the front door had no doors. There went any chance of surprise. She removed a toothpaste tube from the inside of her vest, and quickly drew out a large door shape on the left wall, shoving in a det. "Fire in the hole," she muttered over the vox channel, as the team pressed themselves against the wall.

* * *

><p>The sharp crack of the explosion shook the scaffolding. The six blue team members poured through the hole in the wall before the debris hit the ground. Almost immediately, the crack of single shots rang out. It was clear even to Alìmtaw that the blues had flanked the reds, who had been expecting them to push straight into the building..<p>

"She is good," commented Fingers. "Less than a half a second to make a decision to blow the wall, and Spoons is thinking ahead."

"How so?" asked Alìmtaw, curious as to his reasoning. He saw a red team member fall to the ground, convulsing dramatically. Fingers had told him of the training vests - how they shocked the wearer when a fatal or disabling wound was judged to have been inflicted. It looked most unpleasant, but Alìmtaw could see the point. It would discourage warriors from stupid heroics.

"If and when the blue team leave the building, they will be able to depart by the front door without being under direct fire from the interior," he answered.

Alìmtaw shifted forward so he could see more of the action, teetering on the edge of his seat. This warlike play of the Uniltìranyu was fascinating.

* * *

><p>The defence of the red team had stiffened, slowing the blue advance to a halt at a bend in the corridor. Sharon wasn't worried though. She had determined the red axis of retreat, and plotted it against her knowledge of the size of the building, and from the quick glimpse she had seen of the corridor. There were no doors down the left side, but there had to be a series of rooms between the outside of the building and the left side of the corridor.<p>

She retreated back from the corner a short distance, and pulled out her toothpaste again. Once she had the shape of the door made out, Sharon muttered a few words. The lead guys nodded, and one of them slid a flash-bang down the corridor. Sharon counted the seconds off, and triggered the det.

* * *

><p>The building shook with an explosion, ringing Maweypay's ears, even through the earplugs and helmet. The two soldiers in the room took aim on the door they had entered through, the sound of continuous automatic file coming from beyond.<p>

No-one was looking at the other door, or even heard it being kicked open. But something made Maweypay turn his head.

A female warrior with bare arms and midriff stepped through the open door, fired once, swung her rifle and fired again, shooting both guards in the back. The two guards fell to the ground writhing. She ran in, followed by two males, one of which covered the door. The female bent down, and easily lifted Tsa'peen up over her shoulder. Maweypay was almost too fascinated to notice being slung over the shoulder of the male, and quickly found himself looking at the floor as he involuntarily left the room.

* * *

><p>Sabine wasn't getting any lighter, thought Sharon uncharitably. She had no doubt whoever was running the red team defence would notice the two lifesigns of his guards drop off his helmet HUD. At least the motion-triggered flash-bang she had left behind would delay pursuit.<p>

When she regained the corridor, she stepped aside towards the corner where the lead men were still locked up. The bloke carrying Maweypay stepped through – she guessed Alìmtaw would give him a hard time – followed by her rearguard. The crack of the flash-bang she had left behind sounded. "Go, go, go!" she yelled, and without waiting for the lead guys to move back from the corner ran after the rearguard, trusting them to clear any opposition the reds might have slipped in behind them.

Sharon sensed rather than heard the sound of flash-bangs going off in the cross corridors, tossed there by the rearguard to discourage any outflanking moves. She ran past them at the entry room and burst outside, dumping Sabine on her generous backside. Ten seconds later all her men were outside.

* * *

><p>"Sixty-eight seconds to achieve extraction, and no blue casualties," said Fingers.<p>

"Is that good?" asked Alìmtaw. The blue team's performance had seemed very impressive to him, and they had been outnumbered three to one.

Fingers grinned broadly. "It's better than good. Spoons is brilliant at door kicking."

* * *

><p>Sharon ripped off her helmet, shaking the sweat from her brow. An ex like this one was fucking intense, especially when the red pricks changed the parameters on you. But then again, it wouldn't be a realistic ex if they didn't. Von Moltke said it best.<p>

She bent down and removed Sabine's helmet, who promptly complained loudly, "I've got a bruise on my ass the size of a fist."

"I'll kiss it better," smiled Sharon, after performing the grisly task of plucking out Sabine's earplugs while the red team filed disconsolately out to the good natured mocking of the smaller blue team. She was happy at having achieved the ex objective without any casualties. Apart from the bruise on Sabine's bum.

"What medical value is that?" teased Sabine.

"None whatsoever," teased Sharon right back. "If you like, I can leave you tied up for the rest of today." Perhaps she shouldn't have said that. By the look on her face and the way she bit her lower lip, that prospect appealed to Sabine very much, if certain other conditions occurred. But Sharon didn't move to untie her sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng.

Sabine wriggled over her bound hands, slipping them under her ass and feet, and undid the bonds at her wrists with her teeth. She really was quite flexible. Inventive, too, as Sharon well remembered. "We have guests," said Sabine mournfully.

"Yes, we do," replied Sharon, her eyes twinkling, as she bent down to release the bindings on Sabine's legs.

"I can't hear you!" shouted Maweypay. "Speak up!"

The two women turned around to look see Alìmtaw undoing his cousin's bonds. "What possessed you to do this?" hissed Alìmtaw.

"Still can't hear you!" yelled Maweypay, whose face looked as though he was leaving the earplugs in for a very good reason – namely, to avoid a case of tea and sticky buns from his cousin.

Sharon reflected sometimes dumb insolence was the best defence against a really justified beasting.


	11. Chapter 11

To avoid listening to the quiet face ripping Alìmtaw was giving his cousin, Sharon was stripping down her weapon and thoroughly cleaning it. That was the problem with using blank cartridges – they left crappy residue everywhere. The sooner she removed the shit the better – if the residue cooled overnight, it took fucking hours to scrub off, and no military had ever found anything better than elbow grease for cleaning weapons.

The only problem was that with her Avatar's sensitive hearing, Sharon could hear every single word. She took a surreptitious glance towards the two Na'vi. Maweypay's jaw was set stubbornly, and he was making no reply. Sharon had seen that mulish expression many times during similar circumstances – indeed, she had worn it herself on more than one occasion.

"I do not know what to do with you, Maweypay," scowled Alìmtaw. The whole pretending that his cousin couldn't hear a word because of the yellow ear things was really annoying. "You never think."

"Alìmtaw," called out Zharr'n. "There is a question I would ask you."

"Don't think you're getting out of this so easily," he snarled.

Maweypay's eyes lit up as he growled back at his cousin, "I wouldn't think of it."

The table where Zharr'n was cleaning her weapon was only a few body lengths away from where he had been enlightening Maweypay as to his inadequacies. He nodded back at the idiot, snapping, "We'll continue this later."

When he stood across the table from Zharr'n, she asked him, "Tell me. Has Maweypay passed through the ceremony of Uniltaron?"

"Srane," he replied. "Half a year after I did."

"That means he is judged by all of your clan as an adult, does it not?" she queried, scrubbing hard at some unidentifiable piece of her weapon, and not raising her head from her work. "All Na'vi, in fact."

"Yes," he confirmed with a slight sense of foreboding.

Zharr'n put down the piece of metal and looked into his face. "Then why don't you treat him as one?"

The calm words that Zharr'n spoke were like a slap in the face.

"Look," said Zharr'n. "Maweypay is an adult, and has to take responsibility for his own actions. That means he needs to be able to make his own mistakes, otherwise he will never learn. He is no longer like your younger brother, to be protected from danger. You must allow him to grow up."

The words she spoke were like a knife to the heart. Alìmtaw had always taken care of his young cousin, ever since both his parents died of the bleeding sickness. That was who Alìmtaw was.

Zharr'n continued, "Look at his actions from his perspective. The woman he intends to Choose asked him to accompany her in a slightly dangerous activity that she has performed many times, assuring him that he will come to no great harm. How can he say no without looking weak and cowardly before the woman he wishes to mate? Would you say no?"

"No," he admitted shame-facedly, thinking that he had done exactly the same thing on the beach, when Zharr'n asked if he wanted to learn to surf.

She nodded in satisfaction. "If my sister Tsa'peen accepts Maweypay as mate, I want her to be with a strong and confident man for the rest of her life, a man that she can depend on, a man who can admit he was wrong. If Maweypay is always looking over his shoulder for your approval, can he be that man?"

Alìmtaw shook his head. Zharr'n was right. "What should I do?" he asked, suddenly rudderless.

Zharr'n smiled a crooked smile. "I always find an apology is a good place to start," she replied. "No, not to me – to Maweypay."

"But..." he started to object.

She picked up the piece of the weapon, as though she was about to resume scrubbing. "You love your cousin?" she inquired. When he signalled agreement, she added, "Then it should be easy."

* * *

><p>Well, that was that, thought Sharon. She had probably ruined any chance she had with the guy. Her and her fucking big cock holster, just like always.<p>

Why the fuck couldn't she just shut the fuck up, and leave gonking dogs snoring their fucking comatose heads off?

* * *

><p>The mulish expression still had not left Maweypay's face, making Alìmtaw swallow nervously. "I am sorry," he said.<p>

"What?" exclaimed his cousin, clearly puzzled by his words.

"I am sorry," he repeated. "I should not have called you a skxawng for volunteering to be a hostage in the uniltìranyu playhouse."

An expression of amazement washed over Maweypay's face. This had never happened before, not from _Alìmtaw_. His eyes narrowed as he asked, "Why are you saying this? You have never apologised to me before."

Before he could stop himself, Alìmtaw's eyes flicked across to where Zharr'n was still cleaning her weapon.

"Ahhh," breathed out Maweypay, in sudden understanding.

Alìmtaw dipped his head slightly. "Zharr'n pointed out several facts I had not previously considered," he said. "I saw that I was wrong to do as I did."

Maweypay clapped his cousin on the shoulder and said admiringly, "You're a big man to admit that you are wrong. Many could not do it."

It seemed the moment of awkwardness had passed, and they were back to normal. "There is just one thing I would ask of you," added Alìmtaw.

"What is that?" responded the grinning Maweypay.

"Before you launch off into one of your crazy impulses, at least talk it over with me," said Alìmtaw. "You don't have to accept my advice – just consider it."

Maweypay admitted, "You weren't there, otherwise I would have, and Tsa'peen..." His voice trailed off, as he looked across to where the unfortunate red team members who had been 'shot' were being checked out by the uniltìranyu healer.

"What was it like?" asked Alìmtaw impulsively. "In the playhouse."

"Loud," replied Maweypay. "A little scary. Actually, that's not true. When Zharr'n stepped through the door looking a thousand feet tall and shot our two guards, I could only think of one thing."

Alìmtaw asked, "What was that?"

"The kxitx'payoang had no chance of winning against her," answered Maweypay sincerely.

Perhaps, thought Alìmtaw, like the kxitx'payoang he had bitten off more than he could chew. Then again, it wasn't like he wanted to eat Zharr'n, no matter how good he thought she would taste. He wanted entirely different things from her.

* * *

><p>"Why so glum?" asked Sabine. None of the red team had received any lasting damage.<p>

Sharon had almost finished re-assembling her assault rifle. She looked up at her sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng, her fingers automatically sliding the last few parts together without conscious attention. "I've screwed up," she admitted. "I told Alìmtaw that he should go easy on Maweypay. He'll probably dump me now, for being so fucking blunt."

"You really like him," commented Sabine.

"He's fucking ice-cream on a stick," replied Sharon honestly, "With a chocolate coating."

Sabine chuckled and told her, "You should thank Linda for never teaching you how to swear in Na'vi."

A crease appeared between Sharon's brows. "What does that have to do with the price of piss?" She inserted a magazine with live ammunition and cycled the action, shoving a jelly bean up the spout.

"Sharon," laughed Sabine, "Your use of English is the linguistic equivalent of a loaded sawn-off shotgun in the face. Fuck this, screw that, spread shit over you like fucking Vegemite – it's a touch on the intimidating side for any male. In contrast, your Na'vi is lyrical, like listening to a ballad instead of the shatter rock of your English."

"Oh?" said Sharon, stealing a glance at Alìmtaw. Their eyes met, as if by accident, and Sharon smiled, before tearing her gaze away. But not before seeing a matching smile on Alìmtaw's face.

"There, you see," observed Sabine, who had seen the exchange of looks across the field before the playhouse. "He still likes you." She chuckled again, asking, "What the hell is Vegemite anyway?"

"A delicious substance the colour and consistency of axle grease fed to all Australians from birth," replied Sharon. "I have a case under my bed."

Sabine frowned. "Has it been tested for compatibility with Avatar metabolisms? Many human foods are poisonous to Na'vi, even Avatar hybrids."

"Of course," she said. "I'm no fincle." Sharon grinned. "It tastes exactly the fucking same as it did when I was three bloody feet shorter. Total umami."

"That's very interesting," said Sabine, looking immediately engaged. "Can I have a sample?"

"Babe," teased Sharon. "I'll let you taste some as soon as we crawl into the wanking booth tonight."

"I meant for laboratory analysis," scolded Sabine.

"I know," said Sharon. She looked at the ground, across to the two Na'vi cousins, and then back to Sabine. "Tell me, why do you like Maweypay? He's not the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer, and you've got brains to spare. I thought you'd want a brainiac to match you."

Sabine shrugged, "With all the intelligent men I had relationships with on Earth were so self-involved, it was all about them. It was always me giving up things, and getting nothing in return, or else all I got was pity because I was an amputee, and they were doing me a favour by fucking me. I'm not going to talk about the ones who got off on my stump." She shuddered. "Maybe I'm being selfish, but I want a man who will worship me, not just fuck me."

"Fair enough," commented Sharon. She liked the idea of being worshiped.

"Besides," said Sabine, removing her vest and tossing it on the table, "Have you looked at his body?"

Sharon had. She thought Alìmtaw's lean muscularity was better looking than his cousin's, although she had to admit Maweypay was prettier.

* * *

><p>"Why are they looking at us like that?" asked Alìmtaw. He had seen nantang observing prey with less predatory expressions.<p>

Maweypay suggested, "I think they like looking at us."

* * *

><p>The two women strolled across to the men, ignoring the comments of the Special Forces weenies that hadn't made a strategic retreat to the boozer. Not that there was any booze, despite the Na'vi women passing along the secret of tirea'tutee. After all, it wasn't for the sensitive stomachs of men.<p>

Sharon had retrieved her bow and quiver, so she was fully tooled up again. Well, perhaps not fully. She wasn't carrying her automatic, or some of Santa's little helpers, or the usual kilo of plastique she took out on patrol. Toothpaste was all very well, but you could never have enough play-doh.

Then again, the Boss would probably consider her rather underdressed to go out on patrol, although Sharon couldn't see the point of wearing Kevlar. The casualty stats from the battle of Vitraya Ramunong showed that for all the good they did against Na'vi arrows, vests may as well have been made from tissue paper.

"That was most impressive," said Alìmtaw. "It was almost like a dance."

"Practice makes perfect," replied Sharon.

"That is a very good saying," commented Alìmtaw. "I have not heard it before. Is it tawtute?"

"Yes," she answered, and frowned. Where had Sabine and Maweypay disappeared to? She hadn't even noticed them slipping away to do whatever they did. She carefully decided not to wonder what that was, when her stomach rumbled again. "I would like to resume my archery lesson, except I have not eaten today, as you can hear. Would you like to join me in a meal? Although I should warn you that our cooks are very bad."

* * *

><p>"You were right," commented Alìmtaw. "Your cooks are terrible. I do not know how you can survive on this...nantang shit."<p>

Sharon made a face. "I only eat this to live, not for any other reason. I used to love eating." Her face took on a mournful expression. "What they did to the kxitx'payoang cannot be described."

"You should come to our village on the sea-cliffs to eat some real food," he reminisced. "The sweet fish stew just melts in your mouth."

Saliva suddenly pooled in Sharon's mouth, and she swallowed, imagining the taste of something wonderful, something other than Luncheon Meat Number Two - if it was even meat. She suspected it was really extruded from the stereolithography plant, punched out as long squidgy tubes of pink plastic swathed in cling wrap. Even her staple of Vegemite on soggy saos was getting tired, and she only had one case of her treasure left. Not that she was worried that anyone would steal her Vegemite – you had to be brought up on it to appreciate its subtle yet robust flavour.

"I would love to come to visit," said Sharon. "However, I am celebrating Uniluke tomorrow night, so I could not come until two days after that." In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. "Could my sisters come as well? I am sure they are as sick of this food as I am."

"Um, of course," he replied.

It was clear to Sharon from the expression on his face that Alìmtaw hadn't realised he was issuing an invitation. Too bad, but if she was going to rust on to him, she wanted to see what village life was like first hand. Try before you buy, in effect – particularly as there was no return of defective goods for a refund.

* * *

><p>The sun had sunk lower in the sky as the two cousins stood on the control tower, checking the harnesses of their ikran before their homeward journey. "How did you pluck up the courage to ask Zharr'n to come to our village?" asked Maweypay curiously.<p>

"I'm not quite sure what happened," answered Alìmtaw, a little dazedly. "Suddenly, she and her sisters were going to visit, just because I said I liked sweet fish stew. I don't remember issuing an invitation."

Maweypay chuckled. "You know the old saying that women choose a mate like their father, and men like their mother? I think it might be true in your case."

Alìmtaw didn't answer. He suspected that Maweypay might be right.


	12. Chapter 12

Sharon loved tirea'tutee.

If anything, Sabine's batch tasted better than the original stuff from the Omaticaya – and the hallucinatory kick was fucking Jedi. What both Na'dia and Ninat had spilled about the belt tailing off the older the brew was fair dinkum.

"Darling," drawled Sharon. "If we mate with the boys, shall we go local?"

"Local?" asked Sabine. She was tracing the shape of Polyphemus in the sky with one finger, her head resting in Sharon's lap.

"Local," agreed Sharon. "You know. Join the Ikran People."

"Do we have to grow wings, and get all scaly?" mused Sabine. "I like the way I look."

Sharon frowned. She hadn't thought it was a viable option, although it seemed to make sense. There had to be some reason why Alìmtaw's clan were called the Ikran People. "The boys don't have scales," she observed, and took a large swig from the bowl she was holding. "Or wings."

"Flap, flap, flap," said Sabine, waving one hand vaguely in the air, and giggled briefly. "I want some more."

It seemed that Sabine was fairly well down the road towards total wastage, but Sharon obliged by holding the bowl to her lips, and allowing her to sip – or rather guzzle – a few mouthfuls of tirea'tutee. Sharon then emptied the bowl. She didn't want to get left behind.

Sabine tried to make a straight face, was unsuccessful and burst out giggling again. Somehow, between the giggles, she managed to say in a very deep voice. "I don't want to live in a box anymore."

Boxes. That was one reason Sharon had signed up for Pandora. She had loved being deployed, sleeping in the rough out on patrol, with no roof but the stars. It wasn't the same, living in a box. If she had left the military – and everyone who survived did, sooner or later – she would have had to go live in a box.

Then, when she died, they would have put her in a box too.

"No fucking boxes," agreed Sharon, and hiccupped. "Except with a wooden spoon." She giggled - her team name was Spoons now, and she didn't even have one. Alìmtaw had one though, and she bet he could fucking stir her box with it. Linda said Na'vi spoons were fucking enormous.

"I think I'm going to throw now," Sabine announced proudly. There was a minute's silence, and nothing happened. "Nope, I was wrong," she said, and belched, the expulsion of noxious gases from her gut echoing around the small clearing.

Sharon looked at the bowl she was holding in her hand. She thought about filling it again, but it just seemed too much effort to fill it and drink another mouthful."I think it's kali'weya time," she proclaimed. "Get up."

"No," said Sabine. "I got it last time, remember?"

"But it has legs and things," complained Sharon.

"What kind of things?" asked Sabine in a semi-disinterested tone. She was wondering when the big blue beach ball in the sky was going to come bounce, bounce, bouncing down into this clearing.

"You know," replied Sharon. "Things." She made a fluttery gesture with one hand, wriggling her fingers, of which there seemed to be an indeterminate excess.

"Oh," commented Sabine. "_Those_ kind of things." She took a deep breath and held it. Did Na'vi turn purple with lack of breath, rather than blue? They couldn't turn blue, because they were already blue. A smile appeared on her face, and then all the air rushed out of her lungs as she began to laugh.

Sharon snorted. It was clear that Sabine was totally wasted, and she would have to do the heavy lifting tonight. She wriggled out from underneath, letting Sabine's head fall to the ground with an ungentle thump. The degree of wastage had clearly softened Sabine's skull – her laughter wasn't interrupted in the slightest.

The sample box – Sabine had not got around to acquiring a pottery crock – containing the kali'weya was an unfixed distance away. Sabine would have said there was localised distortion in the space-time continuum, but the way it moved back and forth, and side to side, just made Sharon feel ill. There was no fucking way she was going to walk there – the ground was moving too much. Crawling like a thingy was the only option.

Once she was swaying over the box – she almost started giggling again – Sharon whispered loudly, "Hello scary little thingy. It's time to come out to play." She frowned at the sample box lid, which was a proven child-proof design, guaranteed to be unopenable by intoxicated adults. There was something to be said for pottery crocks and simple lids.

"Press, twist anti-clockwise, and lift off," she chanted, and carefully cracked the lid open. The kali'weya thingy made a sudden break for freedom. Sharon snapped the lid down, narrowly avoiding squishing a couple of its excess of legs. "No you don't," she murmured, and began to sing a little song in Mandarin that her grandfather had taught her when Sharon was young, on one of his rare visits during her childhood on Earth.

The song seemed to have an effect on the thingy. It stopped struggling to get out and instead stood still, swaying on its many legs in time to the music. Sharon opened the lid, inserted her hand and carefully lifted thingy out, never stopping her little song.

It didn't move.

Now Sharon had a little problem. How did she get across to Sabine without dropping the thingy? There was no point in trying to walk – she was fucking legless. Legless as a fucking snake.

So that's what she did. Sharon slithered over to Sabine, but on her back rather than her front, all the time singing her little song.

Sabine had stopped laughing. "That's a pretty song," she murmured. "I didn't know you could sing."

Sharon smiled, shifted her grip on the thingy, and placed it against Sabine's arm.

"Ow," complained Sabine, as thingy sank its stinger into her arm.

A few seconds later, Sharon said exactly the same thing, and allowed thingy to scuttle off.

* * *

><p>"I would hear of what you experienced in the tawtute place," said the olo'eyktan to her son.<p>

It was clear that Txonya was speaking as the olo'eyktan, and not his mother. Alìmtaw could always tell from the tone of her voice, or the expression on her face. These days, since he had passed through Uniltaron, he did not see the mother in her often – instead, he nearly always saw and spoke to the olo'eyktan, or sometimes the Tsahik. He missed his mother.

"What do you wish to hear?" he asked.

The answer was succinct. "Everything."

The olo'eyktan listened without word or interruption through his painstaking retelling of the day he spent at the place the Uniltìranyu called Hell's Gate. Her expression was calm and serene, except during two places in his tale. When he related how Zharr'n had invited herself and her sisters of her tsumuke'awsiteng, Txonya looked amused at the sheer effrontery of Zharr'n. The expression was one that his mother had often worn, when he was a child.

What was more curious was his description of the conversation with Zharr'n regarding his treatment of his cousin. The olo'eyktan's ears pricked up, and she leant forward, almost eager to hear what he had to say.

After he reached the end of his story with the return to this place, they sat quietly for some time, until Txonya said, "This woman Zharr'n. She is warrior, and she is something other than warrior also. You know this."

He hadn't actually considered Zharr'n from this perspective, but he could see how the olo'eyktan would think this. "Srane," he replied.

"Good," she said. "This woman is interesting. She will stay here for a while, so that she may be measured."

"What of her sisters?" asked Alìmtaw. How and for what purpose was Zharr'n to be measured? He did not dare ask. "Tsa'peen, Linda and Kim."

Txonya showed her pointed teeth. It could not be called a smile. "The healer, the teacher and the one who flies a kunsìp," she said. "They may stay also."

Somehow, Alìmtaw knew that the presence of the three sisters of Zharr'n was of little importance – at least to the olo'eyktan.

* * *

><p>Samson Two-One swept over the forest towards the home of the Ikran People. In the far distance, Kim could see the open ocean. She switched her comms to a private circuit for the port door gunner.<p>

"Are you sure about this, Linda?" she asked.

"Sure? No, I'm not sure," answered Linda in a low voice, barely audible over the roar of the engines. She glanced over her shoulder across the cargo area to see Sabine and Sharon hanging out of the chopper. They were laughing over some private joke.

"The girls are talking about leaving Hell's Gate permanently," said Kim. "I don't know if I could do it."

Linda knew exactly what Kim was saying. She had seen what was happening to Sharon and Sabine once before, many years before the tawtute wars, when a girl called Sara had abandoned what remained of her humanity to become a full Na'vi. That one had lost her name, and all connection to those who knew her before. There were only two other people on Pandora other than Linda who remembered who she had been – her husband Niccolo, and one of the human captives, a former sergeant called Lewis.

Sharon and Sabine seemed to be racing to the same end, only faster.

Kim added, "I'm a pilot. I don't know how to do anything else."

"Niccolo and I teach Na'vi for English speakers," said Linda drily. "There won't be a big call for that skill soon, and I don't think there will be much of a demand for stores clerks either." Then she thought of why she had come to this world, touched her belly and smiled. It would be some time before her growing child would begin to show, although she hadn't told anyone yet other than Niccolo. He had been over the moon, or perhaps more accurately over Polyphemus. "How long will you be able to fit in the pilot's seat?"

"I think I will be able to fly right until a day or two before the day," said Kim. "After that – I don't know."

"I wonder what Renshaw will do when the girls tell him they are leaving," said Linda. Not to mention when one pilot and one language instructor go onto maternity leave.

"He has other things on his mind at the moment," said Kim. "Amala has been at Hell's Gate for some weeks now, and she has not returned to the Omaticaya for Uniluke. I don't think anyone else has noticed."

"What?" exclaimed Linda, somehow keeping her voice below the noise level of the engines. "They're mated?" Renshaw had seemed a little distracted over recent weeks.

"That would seem the most reasonable explanation," commented Kim.

Linda had only one word that described her thoughts. "Fuck!"

* * *

><p>Amala kissed the end of Renshaw's nose and said, "Ontu."<p>

"Ontu," repeated Renshaw dutifully.

She kissed both his eyelids and said, "Menari."

"Menari," he murmured back, and smiled. This was a very pleasant way to learn Na'vi – much more pleasant than submitting to the tender mercies of Sergeant Niccolo Vitello. Or, for that matter, Neytiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite. He had viewed the complete journals of Corporal Jake Sully. Next time he met with the olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya, he would commiserate with him, and mention he had found a much more sympathetic language instructor. "Kxa," he said, kissing his mate on the lips.

"Very good, Ren'zhore," purred Amala. "You are a fast learner." She kissed him back.

Renshaw laughed softly. "I do need to learn more Na'vi other than parts of your body."

"Nga yawne lu oer," said Amala, looking deep into his eyes.

"I love you," he whispered.

She took her queue in her hand, offering the end towards him. He smiled, and joined with her, somehow managing to say 'tsahaylu' before they were overwhelmed with the ecstasy of mating.

Afterwards, when they rested in each other's arms, Amala said, "There is something I wish to ask of you, my love."

"What is it?" he asked. There was nothing he would deny this woman.

"I wish for my sisters of the tsumuke'awsiteng to come here, to this place," she stated. "I miss them. May they come?"

Renshaw remembered what Sharon had said about the emotional effects of Uniluke, and the bond of the tsumuke'awsiteng. He knew that the CMO and Sharon were hardly ever apart, and it must be causing Amala distress to be parted from her sisters. "Of course," he said.

"Oe irayo seiyi ngaru," she said, a sweet smile on her face.

"There is just one thing I would like to know," he said, a glint in his eye. "Are they mated?"

"There are many men here who also do not have mates," replied Amala, "And few within the clans. I would not deny my sisters that which I have won."

Renshaw was a good commander. In all honesty, he could not deny his men the opportunity to find such bliss as he was finding in his bond to Amala.

"Besides," said Amala, "My sisters know how to cook, unlike those who call themselves cook in this place. I would like to eat something that is edible."

"So would I," replied Renshaw. "So would I."


	13. Chapter 13

The Samson flared for landing, settling down on a postage stamp sized piece of flat land, some distance away from the village. Kim had chosen the LZ - it was far enough back from the cliff tops to not be affected by the savage updrafts she had felt in her previous overflight.

"Secure all the weapons," ordered Sharon, as the roar of the engines died. "Grommets may be crawling all over the chopper. An accidental discharge that blows one of their heads off will dampen our welcome, and I'd rather not have to post a guard while we are here."

Linda did not object to the order, even though she technically outranked Sharon. "What rank were you before you were frocked?" she asked, knowing that all Operators in SASR were nominally Troopers – equivalent to a Private in a normal unit.

"Halftrack," answered Sharon. "I was a chook, before I learnt how to strangle the fuckers." She grinned, "My fuckbuddy at the time nominated for the gaz selection course, and I put my name down for a lark to see how far I would get. He didn't get past the entry test." She chuckled, "He didn't get another entry test with me either."

"I suppose even the physical requirements for a woman were pretty tough," said Linda, unlimbering her door gun. "What were they set at? Seventy-five percent of the male standard?"

"A hundred," replied Sharon laconically, stowing the ammunition belt for the starboard door gun. "I was pretty fit when I started."

"You're serious?"

Sharon shrugged, "There wasn't any room for passengers in the chook stranglers – not even to satisfy the gender equity foncs. I was the only slit operator during my entire hitch."

Sabine interrupted, "We have an audience."

About twenty Na'vi women, two very familiar males and a scattering of children had gathered a respectful distance away.

"What now?" asked Kim nervously.

"We go say hello," was Sharon's answer, picking up her bow.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, they didn't really get to say hello. Kim and Linda were swept off by a bunch of women with children trailing behind, while Maweypay and Sabine did their usual disappearing act.<p>

"Zola'u nìprrte," said Alìmtaw.

The LZ was suddenly empty of people.

"Oeru meuia," replied Sharon. She laughed at his formality, ran lightly the few steps between them and took his hand in hers. "Ngaru lu fpom srak?"

"Srane," said Alìmtaw. "Ngaru tut?"

"Srane," she replied. Now that had greeted each other, and confirmed that they were both well, there was a strange silence that didn't need to be filled. Instead, they just looked at each other.

"I am glad you are here," said Alìmtaw eventually. "I missed you."

Sharon squeezed his hand. She didn't want to speak, she was too happy to talk.

"Would you like to see our village?" he asked.

She nodded.

* * *

><p>The village of the Ikran People was not like that of one of the forest clans. There were no giant Hometrees this close to the seashore – the salt in the air burnt their leaves and kept them small and stunted. Instead, the dwellings of the People were woven together of different types of small trees, around a large open space, while a number of ikran roosted on the cliff face that dropped away to the sea below.<p>

But these were only the sleeping places of family groups, and where belongings were kept.

A well-worn pathway led towards a huge rock boulder leaning against a rock face. Alìmtaw led Sharon around the boulder, and into a tunnel behind. The floor was worn smooth by generations of Na'vi feet, and the smooth walls were painted with many simple images of animals and Na'vi hunters. "This where the clan takes refuge when the autumn storms come," said Alìmtaw.

The tunnel opened up into a huge cavern, lit with the strange lamps of the Na'vi.

"It is beautiful," said Sharon. That was the only word for it. They walked through the cavern, until near the rear there was a small hole in the floor, barely wider than he rshoulders.

Alìmtaw said, "You must go down there."

"What?" she asked, puzzled.

"The olo'eyktan awaits you, Zharr'n," he said. "I may not proceed further. It is forbidden."

What the fuck? She thought this was supposed to be a trip to try Na'vi food, and instead she was being told to go spelunking, solo, and without any gear.

"Do not worry," he reassured her. "My mother told me you will come to no harm."

"Your mother?"

"The olo'eyktan of the Ikran People is my mother," said Alìmtaw. "She is waiting for you."

And Sharon thought she was good at keeping secrets. She bit her lip, nodded, and passed him her bow without another word. The hole looked dark and narrow. It was probably best to go head first.

Sharon was right. The hole was dark and narrow, and unlike the cavern she had left, it was damp. The drips of water that fell on her were icy cold, and she could see no end to the tunnel. Nor was there anywhere to turn around, no matter how flexible she was.

"This is fucking average," she growled. It was then that she thought she could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Even better, she knew it wasn't a train, and she was no gormless coyote.

* * *

><p>She emerged into a small cavern, lit by daylight. There was a large hole in the roof, allowing both sunlight and what looked like glowing roots of trees to drop down, drinking from the pool of water that filled most of this chamber.<p>

"I See you, Zharr'n of the Uniltìranyu," said the red-painted bitch. Sharon wondered what the paint was, as it had not appeared to run or smeared through the woman's passage through the crawlway she had just used. Unless, of course, the bitch had shimmied down the roots from above. She returned the gesture of greeting.

Txonya smiled. Her pointed teeth were disconcerting, like looking into the mouth of that fucking kxitx'apyoang. "No doubt, you are wondering why you are here."

There didn't seem to be anything else she could say other than, "Yes."

"You will mate soon with my son," she said. "From what he has told me of you, I have need to determine what your role may be within the clan of the Ikran People, for I do not think you wish to remain with the Uniltìranyu." Sharon nodded in agreement. "Good," said the olo'eyktan. "Since you agree, I wish to ask you a question. Depending on your answer, a test may be applied to you. Not the test of Unìltaron, but another test."

"What is the question?" asked Sharon. The slit was superconfident that Sharon was going to be exercising the bearded clam with some horizontal pole vaulting of her son. Pity was that she was right.

"What do you feel within your spirit when you ride a wave?" asked the olo'eyktan of the Ikran People.

Sharon had the irreverent thought that this was a lot of trouble to go through to ask her opinion about surfing. Regrettably, she knew that the shark-toothed bint meant something entirely different. She was silent for a time, until she started to speak – no bullshit, just the unalloyed truth.

"I feel the power of the sea," she replied, "the understanding that I exist only through the sea being willing to bear me, if I tread the balance between the needs of the ocean, and my need to survive." Sharon smiled a crooked smile, adding, "If I seek to challenge the balance, to warp it to my exclusive benefit, the power of the sea will overwhelm and crush me. If I respect the balance, taking only what I need and no more, the sea will consent to show me the inner peace that contains its strength and wisdom, and carry me to where I wish to go."

"You know this?' challenged Txonya.

Sharon shook her head in negation. "No, I do not know this, not by knowing, or by learning," she frowned, struggling for the right words. "I experience this, like I experience the warm rays of the sun, or the coolness of the spring rain as it touches my skin, or the scent of blooming flowers." Sharon's eyes grew misty as she said, "It has always been a part of me, the knowledge of how I come to live in this world."

Txonya shook her head slightly, saying, "To think that a Uniltìranyu..." She stopped for a moment, and continued, "I have been waiting for a long time for one as you to come to us."

"Waiting?" queried Sharon.

The olo'eyktan stepped forward, grabbing hold of Sharon's chin with her right hand. Her hand was pleasantly warm and smooth, thought Sharon, as the woman looked deeply into her eyes. Txonya said softly, "You carry much hurt in your spirit, but wisdom also. I think you have been gone too long from the sea to be truly happy, and wish to return to the centre of your spirit, as once you were."

Sharon gave a single sob, and tears welled from her eyes. This woman had seen into her soul, like no-one else in all of her life.

"I am sorry, my child," said Txonya. "You cannot return to how you were, as an innocent. No-one can." She released Sharon's chin and turned away.

"Why are you doing this to me?" demanded Sharon, her heart aching.

The words of the olo'eyktan were not rushed, almost reluctant. "I have been both olo'eyktan and Tsahik to the clan for many years. My skills of the spirit are not great, as I am torn between the needs of the body of the People, and the needs of their spirit. They are great enough to offer you some healing, to bring you to an understanding, an accommodation with your life and your pain, and perhaps show you how you may live as one of our People."

"This place," continued Txonya, "This cave is not unlike Vitraya Ramunong, the sacred place of the Omaticaya, yet it is different. Here one can hear Eywa, and come to understand a small part of her will, if one is willing, and listens rather than demands."

"How?" asked Sharon, tears drying on her cheeks, although the empty place in her heart still pained her.

Txonya made a gesture towards a low platform. Sharon realised it was not rock, but the roots of many trees, all interlaced together into a hard knot. "Rest here, and you shall hear our mother," advised the olo'eyktan.

Sharon slipped into sleep, and soon began to dream.

She dreamt of a wave, an enormous wave that she rode, bearing her spirit ever higher and faster, until it broke over her, smashing and tearing at her. Sharon struggled, trying to return to the surface of consciousness, when she grew tired and let go.

The boiling waters around Sharon slowly calmed and cleared. She became aware that the water breathed, until it coalesced, forming millions and billions of strands of life, each one separate, yet part of the whole. She floated for a time, lost, yet not afraid of the immensity, for she could see that her spirit formed one tiny strand of this sea of life.

Something was watching her, and knew that she could see, except that seeing was not the right word. Instead, Sharon knew. The world of the threads tumbled madly, until Sharon knew a place where the threads became sparse and sickly, and she understood that this place was Hell's Gate. However, she was not saddened, for Sharon saw that new threads were growing – different to the others, but still part of the whole.

* * *

><p>"Where is she?" demanded Tsa'peen. The three Uniltìranyu women stood in a semi-circle within the cavern of the Ikran People. "It's been five days since anyone has seen Zharr'n."<p>

Alìmtaw looked uncomfortable. He had studiously avoided the visitors, relying on both Maweypay and the healer of the clan to distract Tsa'peen, and the women of the clan to occupy both Kim and Linda, telling them how to care for their forthcoming children. "She is with my mother, the olo'eyktan," he advised. Alìmtaw did not like to lie to these women, for despite their origin he thought of them as friends. Good friends.

"For five days?" demanded Linda. "What can she be doing for five days?"

"She is being measured," he replied. "I cannot tell you more, for it is taboo. Indeed, on my honour I do not know any more than that."

"Is she even alive?" snapped Tsa'peen.

"I'm not fucking sure of that," growled a gravelly voice from behind them, speaking in English. Well, it might have been vaguely classified as English, although it was questionable at best. "I could fang the arse out of a desiccated dingo to get at the bloody baby, I'm so fucking hungry." The voice added, "As long as I had some dead horse. Fucking everything tastes better with enough dead horse, even Luncheon Meat Number Two."

All four swung around to look at the speaker, although Alìmtaw had not understood a single word of the alien tongue. Then again, the look of astonishment on the three women also showed a lack of understanding.

"What the fuck are you all looking at?" said the woman. "I'm not some rupert fondling his budgie smugglers in the middle of fucking Bourke Street."

It sounded like Zharr'n, but it didn't look like Zharr'n.

The woman swallowed with difficulty. "I'd kill for some bitch piss. My burberry is as fucking dry as the red centre after two bloody decades of El Niño," she growled.

"Zharr'n?" asked Tsa'peen.

The woman's face and body was covered in paint, a swirling pattern of red, orange and black.

"Of course it's fucking me," said Zharr'n. "Who else on this dustball has my deft touch with the King's English?" She switched effortlessly to Na'vi, "Alìmtaw, I need to eat and drink before I am presented to the clan. I have no doubt that your mother is an excellent olo'eyktan, but she tends to be forgetful of the frailties of the body. Could you please get me something, before I fade away into the sea-mist."

The male bobbed his head with respect and said, "Srane, Tsahik."

Three mouths fell open as Sharon stepped forward and kissed Alìmtaw on the cheek. "Don't get formal on me, Alìmtaw," she said. "I don't want you standing at attention every time I move." Her eyes dropped down. "Well, some parts of you can stand at attention, if you like."

The three women felt the heat of waves of embarrassment emanating from Alìmtaw, when he grinned, "Yes, Zharr'n, I will get you food and drink. We cannot have you fainting away. Not today." He returned the kiss, but to her forehead, before he strode away – a man on a mission.

"Tsahik?"asked a faint female voice.

That was the last Alìmtaw heard before he left the cavern.


	14. Chapter 14

Sharon said, "You reckon you're surprised. Txonya sent me arse over tit when she spilled."

"But Tsahik!" exclaimed Linda. "Only those descended from a Tsahik are considered, and they are trained from childhood."

Kim asked, "Could we speak in Na'vi? I might stand a chance of understanding what Sharon says then."

"Fair suck of the sav," objected Sharon, a twinkle in her eye.

Sabine gave Sharon a hard look. "I don't think it's unreasonable."

Sharon sighed, and then began to speak in Na'vi. "I was united in tsahaylu with Eywa for five days." She shivered briefly. "It was overwhelming. She is alive in a way you cannot imagine."

"But you can't be a Tsahik!" objected Linda again, this time in Na'vi. "You're, well, you're...Sharon."

"I suppose you're going to say that I swear like a trooper, have the morals of an alley cat and bite the heads off unsuspecting babies," said Sharon drily. "Not to mention beating the shit out of annoying males. Thank you for the vote of confidence."

Linda couldn't get past her initial objection to the concept of Sharon being the spiritual advisor to a Na'vi clan. "But that is exactly what you are."

"You're wrong, Linda," said Sharon. "That is what I do, not what I am. There is a difference. Eywa is more interested in who a person really is rather than the externals. This is what 'I See you' really means."

"Eywa is real?" interrupted Sabine.

Sharon chuckled. "Realer than I am, darling. I think you would call her a unitary planet-wide consciousness. She is, in effect, Pandora."

"I still don't see why you're a Tsahik," interjected Linda. Her apparent rejection of Sharon's change in circumstances seemed to have retreated a little.

"Shut up and let Sharon talk," snapped Sabine.

"The Ikran People have been without a true Tsahik for many years," related Sharon. "Txonya, as well as being olo'eyktan of the clan, has been filling in as Tsahik until a suitable person becomes available."

"Suitable!" snorted Linda, only to be jabbed in the ribs by Sabine.

"Let her speak," repeated Sabine in a low dangerous voice, her eyes flashing. Linda's mouth opened, as if to object, and then snapped shut. "Good."

"As I was saying, Txonya has been waiting for someone to step in and take the role," said Sharon. "There was no-one in the clan with the ability to become Tsahik."

Kim said softly, "I don't understand much about the role of Tsahik. Why is it so important?"

"The Tsahik interprets the will of Eywa," replied Sharon, as though this fact was self-evident. "Where there are great questions to be answered, she listens for her guidance, so the clan may exist in harmony with our mother. For this, the Tsahik must hear the voice of Eywa, even though she may not be bonded in tsahaylu. Very few Na'vi have this gift, which is usually passed down from parent to child, although it sometimes skips a generation."

"Now you're starting to creep me out," said Linda in English. She was hearing Sharon's voice speaking Na'vi, but it was so _different_. Calling Eywa our mother, it was as though Sharon had never been human at all. And it wasn't only that – the tone in Sharon's voice was totally unlike her. Instead of the usual impish humour underlying almost every word she spoke, It sounded...serene.

Sharon moved towards Linda and took both her hands between her own. "It is still me, Linda," she said calmly. And then her mouth rounded in an 'O', astonishment written all over her face. "You are carrying a son," she whispered in amazement. "I can feel his spirit."

Linda nodded dumbly, shocked at Sharon's revelation. There was no way she could have known of her pregnancy, not if she had been linked to Eywa for the last five days.

"She was going to tell you," said Kim.

"Fuck me sideways," grinned Sharon, switching involuntarily to English. The sudden obscenity made Linda realise that this strange woman really was Sharon, and then she found she was enveloped in a warm embrace. "You're a sly bitch, keeping that skerrick of news under your giggle hat," growled Sharon into her ear.

Any further discussion was interrupted by the return of Alìmtaw, bearing a flask of water and strips of dried fish. Sharon was not disappointed at this circumstance, as she had not eaten or drunk for five days. And while dried fish wasn't exactly the most delicious substance in the world, it was better than living on air.

There was another reason she was glad for the interruption. Eywa had revealed the source of Sharon's ability to divine her will, and she desperately wanted to avoid any discussion of it.

Such knowledge would only complicate Sharon's mission.

* * *

><p>Where had they all come from?<p>

Hell's Gate was bursting at the seams with countless young Na'vi women, and not just from the Omaticaya. It seemed that women from the majority of the Fifteen Clans had descended upon the base, all in search of the same thing, and Renshaw was wondering how he could cater for them all.

While food wasn't a problem – many of the young women were experienced hunters, and were supplementing the rations with fresh kills, while others were gathering fruits and vegetables from the forest - not to mention the old standby of Luncheon Meat Number Two.

There was one thing worrying Renshaw above all others – sanitation.

The Hell's Gate waste treatment plant had never been designed to cater for a garrison of over a thousand Avatars. It had struggled under the load, and was only kept functioning with the heroic efforts of the engineers. The Chief Engineer was bombarding him with e-mails prophesising doom and destruction if the load was not reduced.

And the crusty old bastard was right.

If they didn't do something soon, the water supply would be contaminated. He had read the reports from the CMO, advising of the types of gastro-intestinal disease and parasites that could infect the Avatars through foul water. He had to reduce the number of people in Hell's Gate.

Renshaw glared down at the viewing tank, but anger wouldn't change the numbers.

"What is it, my love?" asked Amala, placing her arms around his shoulders and kissing the back of his neck. "Why are you frowning?"

He smiled, as he felt her warm breath on his skin, despite the seriousness of the situation. "There are too many people here," he told his mate. "If they stay, there will be sickness."

"You are wise in the ways of our world," replied Amala admiringly. "I had not expected you to understand this. This is one of the reasons why clans have so many, and no more."

"So what do I do?" he asked. "If I send the young women away, I will offend the Fifteen Clans for our lack of hospitality."

"Why not ask them to take some of our young men with them?" suggested Amala. "You have mentioned before that it is difficult to keep so many men busy so they do not make trouble. It is not necessary for them all to be here."

Renshaw hesitated. He had known that the time would come that he would have to disperse his forces – just not so soon. The numbers he had in Hell's Gate meant that with modern weapons he could defeat any combination of the Fifteen Clans, but that was not his mission. He had been charged by the CEO of the RDA to establish and maintain friendly relations with the Na'vi. Sending his men out to the clans was one way of establishing relations – if they didn't screw up.

"You are right, Amala," he said slowly. "I could send one third of the men out to the clans without adversely impacting capability." Except for supporting offensive operations, a little voice in his head squealed.

"If you did that," replied Amala, "Not all of the young women would have to leave."

He wondered what the captain of the starship in orbit would think of this initiative. Renshaw knew that the man was not privy to his orders from CEO Zhong, and suspected that the man thought the development of good relations with the Na'vi was a purely a deception instead of the main game.

Then again, Zhong could be playing some sick kind of double-cross, setting Renshaw up for failure. There would be no return to Earth for him, or for any of his men – unlike the starship captain.

"Very well, that is what we will do," he decided. There was no point in trying to second-guess his orders. He had to deal with the problems he had now, without agonising over what might happen. This was no place for analysis paralysis.

* * *

><p>Her introduction to the Ikran People had been exhausting. Sharon's head spun with the names and faces of the clan – it was worse than being assigned to a new unit. While there were fewer people than at Hell's Gate, there were more than enough, and as Tsahik, Sharon would be expected to remember the name of every single one.<p>

It wasn't all serious, though. The expression on Maweypay's face had been priceless, on his realising the identity of the new Tsahik.

Somehow she had managed to slip away from the celebration, thanks to the good graces of Alìmtaw. He had managed to slide her between two of the small dwellings, and sneak past the sentry – who was, she suspected, more than a little drunk.

Now they sat on a clifftop, looking out to sea, watching night fall. Even now she could hear the distant throbbing of the drums being sounded in celebration of the new Tsahik. Sharon squeezed Alìmtaw's hand gently.

"You will not be able to escape all feasts this easily," he responded. "As Tsahik, you will be expected to preside at all major celebrations."

"I know," she answered, and sighed. Sharon hated being the centre of attention. Inevitably, however, fame – or rather infamy – sought her out. That was why she swore so virulently in English – to cover up her nervousness at being noticed. She sighed again. Swearing was not an option in Na'vi. She could have cursed Linda up and down these cliffs seventeen times for refusing to teach her how to swear in Na'vi, and not repeated a single English obscenity.

The problem of infamy had pursued her all her life, ever since she had rebelled against her mother for trying to make her into the perfect daughter – sweet, respectful and obedient. It only took one beating from her mother – for getting her ears pierced – for Sharon's life to change. She had only been thirteen.

When the surf was running, Sharon wagged school to catch waves. At night, when she was supposed to be home being the dutiful daughter, Sharon had roamed the streets, looking for empty walls to deface. Often she had to fight to defend her tagging, until she became respected by the gangs as being both a crazy bitch and a talented artist.

It didn't take long for her reputation to spread – both at school and with local law enforcement. After her first expulsion from school, it seemed simpler to continue with the same behaviour. It was more or less expected of her, in any case. It really pissed off her bitch of a mother as well.

It wasn't until after she joined the army that she found her place - or perhaps not her place, but rather a place where she could survive and grow as a person. Sharon owed the judge that gave her a choice – big time.

"The Uniltìranyu still have a claim on me," she said. "I will not be able to be only Tsahik to the Ikran People."

"I do not want you to be only Tsahik," he replied.

Sharon did not have to be looking at him to feel his smile. She looked anyway, and smiled back. Alìmtaw had been referring to something other than her responsibility to the former humans. "You are teasing me," she accused.

"Srane," he agreed.

"What do you want me to be?" asked Sharon bluntly. If they were going to be playing games, then she was interested to see how Alìmtaw was going to wriggle out of this one.

Alìmtaw chuckled before he answered, "Yourself."

She laughed with him. Oh, he was good, very good. "And who might that be?" she demanded, arching one eyebrow in query.

"There are very many women I wish you to be," he replied, "And all of them are you."

"Tell me who these women are," she ordered, continuing to play this amusing game. "I wish to know if I should be jealous of any of them."

"Let me see," mused Alìmtaw. "There are so many..."

Sharon punched him lightly in the shoulder. "I want to know," she told him.

Alìmtaw punched her back. "I'm not sure if I should tell you now," he teased. "If you get angry, you will hit me again. Harder."

"What if I swore not to hit you," she suggested. "I will swear not to hit you tonight, no matter what woman you compare me to."

"On your honour as Tsahik of the Ikran People?" he asked.

"You play dirty," she accused him with a smile. "Very well, I swear."

"What about biting?" he suggested. "I still quiver in fear at the thought of the pain you might inflict."

"Biting is not the act of a warrior," she said huffily.

Alìmtaw narrowed his eyes, and then nodded. It seemed that she was standing on her honour. He was about to start telling her of the many women he wanted her to be when she lifted his hand to her mouth and gently bit him on the palm.

"You bit me," he said, surprised. Alìmtaw had thought Sharon was a creature of honour.

Sharon shrugged. "You made me swear as Tsahik, not as a warrior. Biting may not be the act of a warrior, but there is no song that says a Tsahik may not bite."

He laughed, a rich rolling laugh she had not heard before. "I can see you are more women than I ever thought possible," he said.

"Then tell me," she said, and kissed Alìmtaw on the hand.

"There is the woman who taught me to ride a wave," he told her, and she kissed him on the wrist. "The woman who shapes surfboards." Sharon leant in and kissed him on the shoulder, and his heart started to pound. "The woman who loves her sisters."

Alìmtaw found a gentle hand pushing him down to the ground. He did not resist. "The woman who paints the truth."

"What of the woman who is a warrior?" she asked him, looking down at his face.

"I want you to be that woman only when you have need to be," he answered, gazing up into her bright eyes. "I see the pain she causes you."

"Is there no other woman you would have me be?" she asked softly.

He felt the wash of her sweet breath across his face, and swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "I would have you be the woman I Choose as mate," he whispered.

"Ah," murmured Sharon. "That is the woman who I would be, this night."

Alìmtaw was never sure afterwards who started the kiss that followed, the kiss that ended in the bond of tsahaylu.


	15. Chapter 15

There was good and bad things about being Tsahik of the Ikran People. On the plus side, it seemed that having Eywa sit in her skull for five days had sorted out Sharon's nightmares, and she had not had the faintest trace of a flashback either.

On the minus side, Sharon had not the faintest idea of what she should be doing.

Actually, that was something of an exaggeration. Sharon knew what to do about major crises, about when to consult Eywa by joining in tsahaylu in the sacred cavern, and rendering down the will of Eywa. That was the easy stuff. It was all the small day-to-day things that were killing her.

People wanted to talk to her, seeking her guidance about the slightest little things. Sharon suspected this was a reaction to not having had a real Tsahik for so long, so she was trying to figure out a way of managing this, while still having some time to herself.

The ceremonial things weren't too bad – hatches, matches and dispatches formed the majority of these – and she was learning the appropriate ceremonies and words to be used at each one. She could not have done without Alìmtaw's help with this portion of her duties. He knew every single ceremony back to front, having had them hammered into his brain from childhood by his formidable bitch of a mother.

Txonya – well, that was another story altogether. It seemed that she was in some kind of semi-lethal dance with the slit, figuring out what the ROE were. Despite the woman selecting her as the new Tsahik, the bitch was incredibly protective of her own authority, and there had been several clashes between them.

It was only Alìmtaw's intervention that managed to smooth things over on each occasion. It seemed he was one of nature's gentlemen, and a born diplomat. What was even better was he was totally unbiased and honest, invariably taking the best path for resolving each issue.

She was lucky to have landed him as mate.

The real problem was learning all the precedents for clan law. If it had been all been captured digitally and slammed into a database with a decent search engine, it would have been easy. But no, this was not to be. Na'vi law, like its culture, was based on an oral tradition. Sharon had to know hundreds of songs, each song relating an important legal precedent, and somehow she had to figure out how to place each one in a conceptual framework so she could determine which one had applicability in each different context

The memorising wasn't a problem. Eywa had done a binary dump of all the songs into her skull, and she knew every song word perfect – as long as she sang each one first.

That was why she was in an unused side cavern, drawing mind maps on a cavern wall, trying to come up with major classifications of law that she could use for ordering each individual law song. Of course, many law songs covered more than one area of law, rather than just covering one single subject as would be sensible in any logical structure.

She had eight classifications at the moment – hunt, forest, inheritance, kinship, interclan, war, trade, and custom – and was trying to figure out which songs belonged in each category.

It was harder than the Tactical Calculus course she had to pass before she became frocked as a chicken strangler, and it was sending her insane. Not to mention leaving her with a croaky voice with all the singing she had to do.

"What are you doing?" asked a familiar voice. "You've been in here for days."

Sharon spun around, a curse on her lips, when she realised it was Sabine. She slumped to the sandy floor, and croaked, "I'm trying to understand how to be Tsahik." Had it really been days?

"Mind maps," commented Sabine, recognising the structures scrawled on the wall, even if they were only in two dimensions. "You would be better off borrowing my data tablet."

"I can't," admitted Sharon. "If I have to rely on tawtute things to understand the law songs, how can the clan see me as Tsahik?"

"I see your problem," commented Sabine. She sank down to sit next to Sharon, studying the scrawls on the cavern walls, particularly the many corrections. "Why didn't you ask me for help? It's not like I'm not permitted to use tech. I could map out the relationships on the tablet, and then you could draw them on the cavern walls. It would solve a lot of errors."

"But I'd have to start all over again," object Sharon weakly.

"Foof," said Sabine, pulling her data tablet out of the satchel slung over her shoulder. She shuffled a few icons around, and then held it up, scanning the walls of the cavern. "There. It's all captured."

"Thanks," said Sharon. "I don't know how to thank you."

Sabine said, "By leaving this damn hole right now and enjoying the sun, darling." She stood up and offered a hand to Sharon. "No more than two hours study in here a day," she said. "Doctor's orders. You're working too hard, and not getting any relaxation. Why, you haven't run or worked out since you became Tsahik."

"But the clan..." said Sharon, after she was hauled to her feet.

"The clan will understand," scolded Sabine. "They have a Tsahik now, and are willing to give you time to learn the ropes. They are not expecting an instant expert. Now come outside. It's time to play."

"Alright," she said.

As they left the side cavern, Sabine mentioned in an off-handed way, "Do you realise it's been weeks since I heard you last speak English?"

* * *

><p>Sabine had been right – not for the first time. Her struggle to try and master all at once the intricacies of being Tsahik was a sure path to failure.<p>

So she made up a schedule.

When the surf was running and her commitments allowed, Sharon would run along the cliff tops to her favourite little cove. It only took two hours each way, and she had found a way down the cliffs to the beach – other than by jumping.

Of course, she made sure she took her shottie to take care of any more kxitx'payoang that might turn up while she was surfing. However, she wasn't too worried about the prospect of being eaten. One of the hunt songs covered the habits of the bastards, relating that they were highly territorial and required a huge amount of sea to hunt. It would take some time before another grew large enough to move into the vacant area.

However, Alìmtaw insisted on flying patrols to search for the toothy buggers, or swarming fish that might be their target. He had extracted a promise from her not to surf alone, on the condition he helped her make a place to keep their boards well above the high water line.

On non-surfing days she would spend a couple of hours with Sabine working on her mind map of law songs in the morning, before going for a solo run. She desperately missed the weights from Hell's Gate, and was wondering how she could persuade the Boss to make a set of gym equipment for the Ikran People – even if it was only free weights and benches. She had to make do with using her own body weight as resistance, which made it a lot harder to get good results.

Practicing hand-to-hand wasn't a problem. Many of the young warriors were only too happy to oblige her, although they weren't anywhere near the standard of the Special Forces weenies. One of them had made up a good approximation of a punching bag for her, so she could really lay into something without fear or favour.

In return, the lads offered her pointers on her archery, which she was only too happy to accept.

In the afternoons, she was to be found playing with her new project – figuring out how to build a surfboard entirely out of indigenous materials. She wanted to build a hollow board to maximise manoeuvrability, but it was proving tricky.

Finding the timber for the rails and skegs hadn't been too difficult – she was using the same timber as the clan used for their bows, which fortunately was plentiful. Finding something to do for the ribs and, stringers had been harder, although she had found a very pale and light timber that was suitable. What was fucking killing her was the inability of the Na'vi to make veneers for the shell of the board.

It wasn't until she saw a couple of the old men carrying a coracle to go fishing in the wetlands behind the cliffs that she struck on the solution – fish leather. It was light and incredibly tough – stretched over a structure like her board and lacquered, it was both stiff and waterproof. Perfect for her requirements – as long as she got the seal right. If the board filled up with water, it would sink like s stone – unlike a conventional foam-filled board.

Even better, there was a lot of it available right now, thanks to her little escapade with the kxitx'payoang and Alìmtaw. He had insisted on skinning the big fish before it was filleted.

Sharon had let it be known amongst the clan that anyone was free to come and talk to her while she worked on her board. She found it easy to listen with an unbiased ear to those with problems in their life when her hands were busy. Often she would ask the clan member seeking her advice to provide a helping hand.

Naturally it took a lot longer to shape one of these boards than it had with the tools and materials she had used at Hell's Gate. Neolithic tools just weren't as convenient, although Na'vi glues and lacquers were amazing. But that wasn't the point of the exercise. Sooner or later she would snap her board, and she had to have a decent replacement.

Curiously enough, Sabine told her the clan had come to refer to this strange activity of the new Tsahik as shaping the spirit. Then again, Sharon always thought a good board had its own soul, and it had to come from somewhere. Why not through the processing of shaping?

Today, however, she had been left alone. No clan member had been struck down with some emotional crisis, so she could just focus on shaping – although this first board was almost complete. All she had to do was finish sealing the surface with the final coat of lacquer.

"The style of the image is different," said Sabine from over her shoulder.

Sharon smiled as she continued to quickly brush the lacquer onto the board's surface, making sure the strokes were along the board, not across it. She wanted to make sure the inevitable ridges of lacquer left by her brushwork were not an excessive source of drag.

Sabine was one of the few people who could creep up on her without making the skin between her shoulder blades prickle. "I don't have an air compressor," she replied, without pausing her even strokes. "It's all manual brushing."

"That would account for it," replied Sabine, shivering at the power of the savage image – a kxitx'payoang lunging out of the water, its mouth gaping wide. "I'm not sure that any of the clan will care to ride this board."

"I should hope not," replied Sharon. "This one is mine." She made one final brush stroke and placed the brush in a crock of oily water to soak. "The lacquer will take three days to cure, and then I can take it out."

Sabine's arms slid around Sharon's body as she pulled her sister into an embrace. Sharon turned her head as she leaned back and they kissed briefly. "When did you get back from Hell's Gate?" she asked. Sharon hadn't heard a chopper approach.

"About half-an-hour ago," replied Sabine. "I rode back on pa'li with Maweypay, rather than taking a bird. We left before dawn." She bit Sharon gently on the neck, making her shiver in delight. "I'm not going back again, unless I absolutely have to. I can't do what Kim and Linda are doing any more, shuttling back and forth every few days. Not since Maweypay finally plucked up the courage to Choose."

"What did Renshaw...say?" asked Sharon, finding it increasingly difficult to talk, as Sabine's hands had crept up to caress her breasts. She hadn't seen the Boss since she mated with Alìmtaw, as Sharon was still officially on the sick list – thanks to Sabine.

"As long as I returned to deliver Amala's child, he said it was fine," answered Sabine. "She is about three months along."

As she was gently pulled down to the ground by her sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng, Sharon had one thought before she was lost in the ecstasy of love-making. It was time. Time to act.

* * *

><p>"Why have you asked for this secret council, Zharr'n?" asked the olo'eyktan. "It is most unusual."<p>

"Tomorrow, I have need to return to the place of the Uniltìranyu," replied Sharon. "I seek leave to go."

There were several moments of silence, broken only by the hum of insects circling the bioluminescent lamps. "Will you take my son with you?" asked Txonya.

"I don't know," she replied, not expecting this question, and anxiously bit her lip. "My absence may be an extended one, before I can return."

Txonya nodded once, and inspected her hands carefully before she spoke again. "I imagine you will tell me the purpose of this visit."

"Before we mated, I told Alìmtaw that the Uniltìranyu still have a claim on me," said Sharon. The olo'eyktan inclined her head, acknowledging that her son had told her of this fact. "It is time for that claim to be made."

"This claim would be linked to the appearance of the new moving star in the heavens," said Txonya, "The star that heralds the arrival of another tawtute tanhì'sìp."

"Srane," said Sharon.

"There will be war," said Txonya. "You seek to turn the Uniltìranyu against the tawtute that come."

"How did you know?' demanded Sharon, shocked at the response. "I have told no-one. My grandfather..."

Txonya interrupted her words with a low, rippling laugh. "Though you are Tsahik now, Zharr'n, you have much to learn of the will of Eywa," she smiled, her jagged teeth turning a pleasant expression into a fearsome one. "She works at many levels to maintain the Balance. Also, I have spoken with the Toruk Makto, Zhake'soolly of the Omaticaya, and the palulukan woman Na'diakhudoshin, of their strategy to subvert the Uniltìranyu. They called it," she paused, twisting her mouth around the unfamiliar tawtute words, "Operation Bounty."

The olo'eyktan's eyes twinkled at Sharon's confusion. "In answer to your question, I give you leave to go," she said. "I know that you will return, if you can. Although, I would hear of your grandfather before you depart."

Sharon nodded. "My grandfather is Zhong Li, the first leader of the tawtute that came to Pandora."

"Ah," interrupted Txonya. "Much is now explained. Zhong is an honourable and worthy man, beloved of Eywa – if others that had come later had been as him, then the war of the tawtute would not have been."

"My grandfather is beloved of Eywa?" Sharon could not believe her pointy blue ears – despite her dream that Eywa had told her the very same thing.

"Srane," said Txonya. "If not for Zhong, the song of Kalinkey te Pesuholpxaype Lissa'ite, the first uniltìranyu, would be a much sadder song." Her eyes narrowed, considering the woman in front of her, and she laughed again. "It seems the mystery of your closeness to Eywa is no longer hidden."

"I have not heard this song," said Sharon. "My grandfather has told me little of his time on this world."

Txonya cocked her head at the woman before her. "This song is forbidden to be sung in the presence of tawtute, for reasons that will become obvious," she said, "Though since you are hardly tawtute any longer, it is no longer taboo to you. If you would make yourself comfortable, for this song is lengthy, I will sing this song to you."

"I would like that," replied Sharon, sitting gracefully on the floor of the dwelling of the olo'eyktan.


	16. Chapter 16

The lacquer on the surfboard was still a little tacky.

"I wonder if I will ever ride you," murmured Sharon. She smiled to herself. It was another reason – a small one admittedly – to encourage her to return. The other reasons were much more important.

* * *

><p>The sun was peaking above the horizon as she slung into the cargo area of Samson Two-One. She ignored Niccolo and Linda checking the door guns and scrunched down against the rear wall, resting her bow on her knees.<p>

"Finally decided to come back to the real world, huh?" joked Niccolo. "Shouldn't you be in uniform?"

Sharon felt exactly the opposite, as though she was falling into a nightmare. "Shut the fuck up, Vitello," she snarled, the English words strange in her mouth. She was not in the mood to joke. In any case, what few tawtute clothes she had here had rotted and fallen apart. There was no option but to wear her normal dress.

"Niccolo," warned Linda, giving her mate a significant glance. It was unusual for her friend to be so anti-social. "Give Sharon some room."

Nothing more was said to Sharon as the engines spooled up, and the chopper lifted off.

* * *

><p>Alìmtaw stood with his cousin and Sabine, watching the kunsìp leave. "Will she return, I wonder," he whispered to himself. Three months with his mate had not been long enough.<p>

Maweypay clapped him on the shoulder. It appeared he had not spoken softly enough. "I am sure of it," he replied. "I have never seen a woman so in love with a man."

"Irayo," said Sabine, and clipped the back of his head with her hand.

"Except for you, my love," said Maweypay hurriedly.

Sabine laughed. "I know what you meant, muntxatan," she said fondly. "You seek to reassure your cousin, and you are right. Zharr'n loves Alìmtaw, and will return to this place, though the entire strength of the tawtute armies bar her way."

"Your words are kind, Tsa'peen," said Alìmtaw. "Still, though, I worry."

* * *

><p>Renshaw terminated the call, gritting his teeth. The bastard in orbit had no conception the delicate balance he was walking. He just didn't seem to understand that maintenance of good relations with the Na'vi depended on taking care of the environment around Hell's Gate.<p>

To order him to prepare for the resumption of open cut mining and the descent of hundreds of human miners with the next starship was sheer idiocy, even if there was a vaccine against Pandoran Hemorrhagic fever. Such an action would guarantee an uprising form the Fifteen Clans, and he suspected that half his men would refuse to fight. It would mean fighting the kin of their mates.

If news got out about the deterrent, there would be a bloodbath.

He stood up, pushing himself away from the desk and turning to look out the window, into the forest. Renshaw desperately wanted to hit someone, but he managed to control his anger. Just as well the prick had to wait for the arrival of the next ship before the deterrent could be deployed.

Renshaw heard one of the floorboards just inside the doorway creak. He turned to say to the intruder that he did not wish to be disturbed, when he saw that it was not one of his men.

The intruder was a woman, her face and body totally covered in swirling colours of red, black and orange. He had never seen a Na'vi painted with more complex designs, nor one with such elaborate beading and plaiting in her hair. Her decorations must have taken hours to prepare - this was clearly a high status individual – the bow she carried in one hand was one of the most beautiful pieces he had ever seen – but he was not familiar with the clan markings on what little clothing she wore.

"Zola'u nìprrte," he greeted the unfamiliar woman respectfully. "Oel ke tsole'a kea ngati. Fyape fko syaw ngar?

* * *

><p>Sharon chuckled as she said in her flat nasal voice, "Your Na'vi has improved, but I thought you were fucking better than that, Boss. Not bloody knowing one of your own bloody grunts – a piss-poor roadie at a third-rate bush rock show would be more clued-up."<p>

"Sharon?" exclaimed Renshaw, not believing his ears. The contradiction of the voice with the appearance of this woman ripped at his mind, at least until he caught sight of the five fingers of the woman's left hand wrapped loosely around her bow haft. "Is that you?"

"Larger than life and twice as real," she grinned.

"I thought you were out living with the Ikran People," he said, his voice full of incredulity. "The CMO still has you on the sick list."

"I have been, but I'm better now," she replied. "Before you start on the tea and sticky buns, I haven't been slacking off. I've landed another assignment, and been genning up on the particulars. It's been fucking hard yakka."

"What?" he demanded. "Are you deputy olo'eyktan, or something?" How the fuck was he going to manage this mess?

"Close, but no fucking banana," she replied calmly. "I am Tsahik of the Ikran People."

You could have heard a bloody pin drop. The Boss looked like a stunned mullet subjected to a spot of gentle fishing with amfo and det, his rat shovel opening and closing repeatedly without any words coming out. The girls hadn't believed her either when she told them. Was it so strange to believe that she had a spiritual side?

She continued, "I've got a ball and chain too. You'd like the bugger – his name is Alìmtaw – and he's a good sort." Sharon grinned, "He's fucking dynamite at rattling spoons."

Renshaw's mouth shut, and he blinked several times, as though he was trying to dispel an unwelcome image from his mind's eye. "Tsahik," he said slowly. "That is...unexpected."

"Too bloody right," she agreed. "You could have bowled me over with a yorker, even though I'm no fucking maiden."

"Why are you here?" he asked. It looked like he was preparing to lose her from his command, although that had already happened, even before they had left Earth. "Are you going to resign?"

"Not exactly," she replied. "I'm here to give you a pineapple." Sharon grimaced, adding, "You're not going to like it, with or without lube." She took a deep breath, and spoke in a slightly raised voice, "Tac-com, authenticate."

A pleasant contralto voice replied from Renshaw's desk, "Authenticating. Subject is Sharon Xiùlán King, Trooper. Please give authentication code."

Before Renshaw could interrupt, Sharon said, "Authentication code victor x-ray one five one eight two."

"Authentication accepted."

* * *

><p>"What the fuck are you doing?" snarled Renshaw. There is no way Sharon could have had access to the mission tactical computer. She just was not cleared to that level. She was a fucking grunt, not an officer. He reached for his sidearm, unbuttoning the holster, only to freeze.<p>

Sharon was standing in classic archer's stance, her bow fully drawn. "Sir, place your sidearm on the floor, and back away. I do not wish to kill you," she said calmly. "If you do as I say, for the next ten minutes, you will live through this. After that – well, we shall see."

Renshaw assessed Sharon's stance and expression. She was deadly serious. Slowly, very slowly, he grasped his pistol between his thumb and forefinger, and placed it in front of him on the ground. As he stepped back, Sharon said, "Amala, Sheath your knife. If you don't, I will kill Renshaw, and your child will be fatherless."

"Vrrtep!" growled Amala from the doorway, fifty feet behind Sharon.

"Amala, walk away," said Renshaw. "I will deal with this traitor."

"No," contradicted Sharon. "Amala needs to hear this too. Tac-com, open file Vitiate."

The display over Renshaw's desk flickered and displayed an image of a slim Asian man of indeterminate age, wearing an expensive suit. "Colonel Renshaw. I imagine my granddaughter has a weapon aimed at your head. Rest assured that she is following my orders." A wintry smile crossed his face. "She predicted that your reaction would require her to do this. She is quite a student of human behaviour, despite her rough edges. Sharon, lower your weapon. The Colonel will be more relaxed if he is not under the threat of death."

Renshaw dragged his attention away from the recording of CEO Zhong, to see Sharon un-nock her arrow and replace it in the quiver.

"You are no doubt wondering the reason for this message," continued the message. "Sharon's orders were to trigger this command file once relations with the Na'vi were well-established. I have no doubt you have performed to my expectations."

"Now, according to my projections, the _ISV Venture Star_ should be about one month from achieving orbit. As you are aware, it is fitted with Thor's Hammer orbital strike packages, tipped with thermonuclear warheads. Under your existing orders, if the Na'vi do not accept the resumption of unobtanium mining, Thor's Hammer will be used to eliminate key communication nodes in the Pandoran forest. By now, targets will have been identified by sensors mounted on the _ISV Dog _Star, using predictions from the Kalinkey Theorem.

Zhong's image sighed. "Execution of the deterrent will result in the death of the planetary consciousness known by the Na'vi as Eywa. It is expected that Na'vi resistance will collapse as a result, so mining will resume unimpeded."

"Who is this monster, Ren'zhore?" whispered Amala. "Who are you?"

"These orders were confirmed by the RDA Board. They believe there will be no option other than to execute the deterrent," continued Zhong. "Earth needs the unobtanium to avert disaster."

"What the Board does not know is that the Kalinkey Theorem has broader application, to the operation of planetary climatic homeostasis. Applied to Earth, the theorem shows a tipping point was reached before I ever left Earth to establish the human settlement on Pandora. In fifteen years – or rather ten, from your perspective, Earth will undergo a catastrophic change in its climate, which will result in the replication of a Venusian type atmosphere, and the ending of life on Earth. It is too late – there is nothing that can be done to save Earth."

"Pandora is outside the life zone for Alpha Centauri A. Life is only possible due to the maintenance of planetary homeostasis by Eywa. Her death will result in runaway climate change, the end point of which will be Snowball Pandora."

"Execution of your orders will result in the death of two worlds," said Zhong. "I do not wish my soul or yours to carry this burden, so I am ordering you to disregard your previous instructions, and take any action you deem necessary to prevent the death of Eywa, no matter the outcome for Earth." He smiled thinly, adding, "You should be aware that the RDA Board is authorising construction of more starships specifically designed for planetary bombardment, should their existing strategy be unsuccessful. They will not flinch at exterminating every Na'vi."

"Justify the faith I have placed in you, Colonel Renshaw, and do everything in your power to keep both Pandora and my granddaughter alive. I have ensured that everything you need to achieve this objective has been supplied. Zhong out."


	17. Chapter 17

Amala advanced upon Renshaw, her fingers curled into claws, her knife forgotten for the moment. Her voice started low, rising in volume until she was shouting. "You would kill Eywa? Destroy the forest? Kill all Na'vi?"

"I was trying to stop it from happening," stated Renshaw, backing away, his hands raised in an effort to fend off his enraged mate. "Another man would not have..."

"I am sick that I allowed you to touch me!" she shrieked, and snatched her knife from its sheath. "I will cut out this foul seed of your flesh from my body." Amala lifted her knife high, only to find a five fingered hand wrapped around her wrist.

"No," said Sharon, yanking Amala's hand down and around, so that they were facing each other.

"You are one of _them_," hissed Amala. "A filthy tawtute – you are in league with that _ngawng_." She struggled to release her knife hand from Sharon's steely group. "You will not stop me from removing this _unclean_ thing."

"No," repeated Sharon. "I will not permit you to slay an innocent."

"Please Amala," begged Renshaw. "Our child..."

"Shut the fuck up, Boss," snapped Sharon. "You're not helping." She pressed her thumb deep into a pressure point above Amala's wrist, forcing her fingers open, and the knife clattered to the floor.

"Let me go!" snarled Amala, struggling to free herself.

Sharon let go, causing the pregnant woman to fall to the floor. "I am Tsahik of the Ikranaru," she said coolly, placing her bare foot on Amala's throat, pressing down firmly. "It is an offence against Eywa to threaten the life of an innocent for no cause. The song of Nguluk mandates death for this crime."

Amala's eyes were bulging as she struggled for breath.

"I face a small problem," said Sharon, a thin smile on her face, as she pressed a little harder." If I exact punishment, the innocent will also die. "She removed her foot from Amala's throat, and offered her left hand to help the prone woman up.

When Amala was standing, she felt her throat cautiously and croaked, "You are Tsahik." The Omaticaya woman looked as though she could not believe what had happened.

"You bet your sweet fucking arse," growled Sharon. "Now go to your mate, Amala. He loves you, and would do anything to protect you from harm." She turned back towards Renshaw, asking, "Isn't that right, Boss?"

As Renshaw took his mate into his arms, he looked up and silently mouthed two words. "Thank you."

But Sharon was already out the door and down the steps.

* * *

><p>The keypad numbers had worn off, but Sharon remembered the code well enough. She had withdrawn her weapons from the armoury often enough.<p>

When she unracked her assault rifle, she whispered, "I've missed you, baby." Her hands slid the grenade shells into the underslung launcher without a single thought, the same way Alìmtaw slid into her during tsahaylu. A single pull back on the action allowed Sharon to slap in a magazine, just like she had a million fucking times before.

"Hey! What the fuck are you doing?" cried a male voice. "Na'vi aren't supposed to be back here."

Sharon spun and lifted her assault rifle, pointing it her accuser's head. "Fingers," she growled. "If you're going to face rip one of the indigenous, you should do it in Na'vi. Most of us don't speak the King's fucking English."

In the sudden silence, the sound of her safety catch flicking back to safe almost echoed through the armoury.

Fingers swallowed nervously once, and then grinned, "Neither do you, Spoons." He hesitated for a moment before asking, "Since when are you one of the Na'vi?"

"Not a single cunt has recognised me today," complained Sharon, lowering the rifle. She ignored the allusion to her English skills, and the question regarding her status as a Na'vi clanswoman. It was none of his fucking business. "What the fuck is with that?"

"This is a lot more of you on display than we are used to seeing," quipped Fingers. "It's a little distracting."

"Fair enough," she commented. It was true – it had taken her a little while to remember look the young male Ikranaru in the face when she talked to them. The first week or so living in the Ikranaru village had been like living at a strip joint, before she got used to living with acres of gorgeous naked male flesh. In Sharon's book, there was nothing wrong with window-shopping. "Fingers," she said slyly.

"What is it?" he asked, a suspicious look appearing in his eye. A woman with that tone in her voice usually wanted something. Something he wasn't sure he wanted to give.

"We need to muster the doorkicking crew," she told him. In Sharon's experience, SF weenies usually had an excess of testosterone, in which case most of them should either be pursuing a mate or already mated. "I think we have a two-way rifle range ex coming up, so we'll need to practice."

"Live fire?" frowned Fingers. "Against who?"

Sharon laughed and replied, "You'll find out soon enough."

* * *

><p>After entertaining herself for half-an-hour or so shooting off a load of brass on the range, Sharon returned to command longhouse. Amala was nowhere to be seen, while Renshaw was pacing back and forth.<p>

"You've squared it with the strife, Boss?" she asked.

Renshaw paused in mid-step and turned his head towards the interloper. His eyes crossed briefly while he translated Sharon's question, and answered curtly, "Yes. Amala is fine now."

"Good," replied Sharon. At least he should be able to stay on focus to plan out there actions. While she had a good idea of what might be required, Sharon really wanted Renshaw to thrash out the detail, and to do it well. "I don't want to crack the sads, but we've got a lot of planning to do, seeing Eywa and Grandpa have stabbed me for this op," she added, "Otherwise we'll end up with a fucking rock show with fries and too much redders rather than a well-lubed contact. I'd like to get the Ukrainian palulukan cunt to join us in this four-star fornicatorium – you know, Na'diakhudoshin. She's got more sense than a twenty-year Dargon, and she'd be a shoo-in for a spot as a chook-strangler." Sharon could think of no higher praise.

"Your grandfather has ordered me to betray my oath of allegiance," said Renshaw coldly, "To betray my own species."

Sharon met his glare without flinching. "I wasn't aware that humans had blue skin and tails," she replied steadily, without using a single obscenity. "Or that they could breathe Pandoran atmosphere without an exo-pack."

Renshaw opened his mouth, as if to make an angry retort, but then clamped it shut almost immediately. "A chopper is already bringing her here," he replied, clearly referring to Na'dia. Somehow he was managing to hang on to his fury, thought Sharon, even if only barely.

"There are files with the climate projections attached to your orders," said Sharon. "I suggest you get one of the human scientists to review them for you."

"I'll do that," he said icily. "Dismissed."

It was clear that her presence was no longer required. No, not required – it was resented. The sooner she was out of there, the better - if only to avoid being the focus of the Boss' fury.

* * *

><p>Sharon relocated to her spot under the Boss' window. She suspected he would be too concerned over her grandfather's message to worry about her presence, and events proved to be right.<p>

A human scientist arrived – some geek called Patel – to run through the projections. After an hour or so, he told the Boss that after a cursory analysis, the logic appeared to be unassailable, but further review would be required before he could give an authoritative answer.

He did mention that the Kalinkey Theorem was a thing of beauty – a typical boffin thing to say about the prediction of the end of the world.

The only answer that the Boss gave to the brainiac was a brief grunt.

It wasn't long afterwards that Sharon heard Na'diakhudoshin arrive.

* * *

><p>"Na'dia," said Renshaw. He sounded a lot calmer than Sharon would have expected. Then again, he was one of the best officers she had ever served with. She had carefully used 'with' in her thoughts rather than 'under' – Sharon didn't what to piss Amala off any more than absolutely necessary. "I'm glad you are here."<p>

"What is the problem?" asked Na'dia. It seemed there was going to be no beating around the bush with this slit, thought Sharon. Na'dia was definitely a woman after her own heart.

"It's the mission commander," replied the Boss. "He is demanding we start preparing for the resumption of mining, now that the Na'vi political situation is stable. The starship with miners and our reinforcements – all human – is only a few weeks out. I just don't have the capacity to do it, not and keep my men fed, and still keep the ecology of the Hell's Gate range healthy. You can't rely on your defensive virus any more either. The bio team in orbit cracked the vaccine."

Sharon flinched when at the mention of the virus. No-one had ever told her that the Pandoran atmosphere had been seeded with some anti-human virus. It was no fucking wonder the RDA had plumped for permanent personality transfer to Avatars for this mission. She wondered if the RDA had any idea if the Avatars would be subject to the same virus, given the mix of human and Na'vi DNA. Some fucking risk – if dear old Grandad had been here, Sharon would have torn him a new lughole.

"There is the minor matter of re-opening the mine," mentioned Na'dia calmly. The bint didn't seem surprised about the news about the virus. It seemed she had been expecting it. "The Na'vi will resist the rape of Eywa. You know that."

"There is that minor matter," echoed Renshaw. Sharon could hear something cracking, as though Renshaw was gripping something to stop himself from losing his temper. It didn't work.

"Damn you bitch!" he shouted finally. "You twisted me so that I have no fucking choice!" The colonel took several deep calming breaths, before he said quietly, with an implacable thread of steel running though his voice, "I will not have my wife and child live at the mercy of the humans, squatting in a stinking rubbish dump on the edge of a mining camp. You know that will be the outcome if I follow my orders." He repeated, "I will not have it. There is nothing else to do but to rebel against the RDA."

Sharon slowly released the breath she had not realised she had been holding. The Boss had accepted his orders from Grandpa Zhong, and her life wasn't going to turn into shit. Well, she amended, was not guaranteed to turn into shit, if she managed to live through this little exercise.

Na'dia said sadly, "I have been wondering how long it would take before you admitted to yourself that you were not human, but Na'vi."

"You were right," replied the Boss. "I know now exactly why Sully chose the path that he did. He had no choice but to do otherwise, not if he was to remain true to himself. The code of the warrior demands it of us."

"Will the rest of the Uniltìranyu clan feel the same?" asked Na'dia. "Will they also rebel?"

"Yes," was the blunt answer.

Too fucking right, thought Sharon. There was no fucking way Sharon was going to turn into a Na'vi version of one of those pitiful creatures she had seen hanging around firebases in the Hindu Kush, dependent on some feckless shithead of an alien grunt for a handout – if the fucking shitheads didn't decide to brass up at her for a little innocent fun.

"Good," said Na'dia. "You realise you owe the RDA nothing, Renshaw?"

Renshaw replied, "I understand that now. I did not before."

* * *

><p>Sharon had heard enough – step one of one hundred had been successfully navigated. Now she could get on to doing the shit she liked – blowing shit up and servicing the odd worthy tango. Or at least planning for it.<p> 


	18. Chapter 18

It was peaceful, sitting on her board out beyond the point break, feeling the first rays of dawn warming the sun on her back. This truly was a beautiful place.

Sharon looked across at Alìmtaw and said, "I'm sorry."

"It isn't your fault," he replied.

She knew better. It was her fucking fault that some numpty on the shuttle assault team had been too eager, and blew up their one and only chance at winning – no, not winning, survival. The shithead had snapped a shot off at the loadmaster on the shuttle ramp and missed. Through some unlucky chance, the stray round had hit one of the hypergolic fuel lines for the shuttle attitude thrusters, and the whole fucking shebang had erupted in a fireball.

Not before the fucking pilot had got off a message that they were under attack.

Only three of the close-in assault team had survived the fireball, although Sharon suspected that Fingers had wished he hadn't. The poor bastard had third degree burns, and was in sheer fucking agony. Sharon and one of the Spetznatz foncs had got away with only a little light singeing.

It had been her plan to capture the fucking shuttle, and it had turned it a pile of steaming turds. There was no avoiding the responsibility. What was even worse was seeing the despair in the Boss' eyes after the entire clusterfuck was over.

"You're sure it will be today?" asked Alìmtaw, interrupting her train of self-pity.

"Srane," she replied. "The _Venture Star_ made orbit last night. The tawtute will not waste any time." She made a grimace, adding, "Time is money, after all."

"Money?" frowned Alìmtaw. "I do not know this word."

"It is the curse of the tawtute," she answered. "Money tells them the cost of everything, and the value of nothing."

"A strange concept," mused Alìmtaw. "I am afraid I do not understand."

An arrow plunged down through the sky, leaving a contrail as straight as if it had been drawn with pencil and ruler. "Shield your eyes," cried Sharon. It was as she expected. The first strike of Thor's Hammer was going to land directly on Hell's Gate, to crush any centre of Uniltìranyu resistance.

It was an airburst. Evidently the pricks wanted to minimise damage to Hell's Gate. The brilliant light lit up the sky, and she saw the bones in her hand lit up as though it was an x-ray. The warmth of the light of the thermonuclear explosion on her face and body was like the caress of a fluffy blanket on a cold night.

"Wiya," swore Alìmtaw. He had never seen a light so bright, even brighter than staring directly into the sun.

Sharon swallowed. Another sky-arrow was apparently heading directly toward them. She had no doubt that one of Eywa's nodal points was the root system in the cavern of the Ikranaru, and that the tawtute would designate it as a target for one of Thor's Hammers. That was why she had worked out the numbers, to make sure her favourite point break was inside the lethal radius of the warheads that tipped the fucking evil things. Even though the nukes were what the weps cunts mockingly called 'clean', having antimatter rather than the old-fashioned fission triggers of the twentieth century, they still produced some fallout. Sharon had no wish to die a lingering death from radiation poisoning. If she had to cark it, she was going to go fast.

She reached for Alìmtaw's hand, and said, "I love..."

There was a brilliant flash, her vision disappearing into the most iridescent purple that she could imagine. Suddenly, she could feel her skin and hair burning. Sharon opened her mouth to scream in agony, only to have her lungs and vocal cords seared black by the superheated air. The only parts of her body that were not in agony were her calves and feet, protected by the cool water of the Eastern Sea.

The pain went on for an eternity, although it probably lasted for only about thirty seconds. What was worse was that Sharon could feel Eywa's pain as if it was her own, feeling the death of millions of living plants and animals, as well as the death of Eywa herself.

Sharon's last conscious thought was just before the blast wave arrived to rip her body apart.

"If only..."

* * *

><p>Sharon woke screaming and struggling in sheer panic.<p>

"Shh," said Alìmtaw, holding her close. "You are safe, here with me."

It was a dream. She was in her old quarters at Hell's Gate, and the assault on the shuttle hadn't happened yet. Slowly, her shudders reduced to trembling, and she no longer fought to breathe.

"I dreamt I failed," she whispered eventually. "I dreamt the tawtute destroyed our world."

"It is a sending from Eywa," replied Alìmtaw. "She is telling you what to do." He frowned, and corrected himself, "Or perhaps what not to do."

Sharon chewed at the inside of her cheek, a habit that she had carried onward from childhood – a sure sign that she was deep in thought. Her mother had hated the habit, scolding that she looked like a dumb cow chewing her cud. It only made Sharon more determined not to give in – it was only one of the many infractions that kept her confined to her room for a large portion of her early adolescence. Later on, of course, she had just ignored her mother, and did exactly as she wanted.

Of course, that didn't work out too well – which was how she came to wear cams.

Maybe Alìmtaw was right. She snuggled back into his arms and furiously thought.

A conventional assault wouldn't work. The only way to assault the shuttle – through the rear doors – just took too damn long. Every simulation she had modelled over the last week had ended up in disaster. She had to do something different.

How to capture the shuttle without destroying it, or the pilot alerting the _Dog Star_ in orbit the shuttle was under attack? The key was the pilot.

Options swum around her brain in a dizzying spiral, until she sank beneath the surface to fall asleep.

* * *

><p>Sharon pounded around the Hell's Gate perimeter, her skin soaked with sweat. It was one of those incredibly hot and humid days, when even the insects were too limpid to be bothered lifting off from the ground. She longed for a cool breeze coming off the Eastern Sea, tinged with salt and the promise of wave sets building far off the coast.<p>

Renshaw had been antsy about the whole secret orders thing, but he seemed to be pretty much on the pill now. Amala had straightened him out. It was just as well, as the fucking _Venture Star _was due in orbit just over two weeks from now.

She slowed to a walk, shaking her head to try and flick some of the beads of sweat from her face. It was heat like today that made her wish there was a large walk-in freezer on base. Actually, there was one, but it was sized for humans, not Na'vi, so there was no chance of cooling down that way. She didn't fancy crawling in, or hitting her head. Scrunching over in a reefer was too much like playing the eponymous woman in a refrigerator, and there was no way she was going to be a fucking victim.

"Tsahik," called a female voice.

It was a familiar voice, or was it? Sharon turned and smiled. "Na'dia," she responded. "Am I glad to see you."

"Self agrees it is pleasant to see Tsahik," replied Na'dia.

What the fuck? The slit's voice was cool – no, glacial in tone, sending shivers down Sharon's spine. She looked hard at the woman, seeking what had changed, when she saw the truth of things. The way she moved, held her head, the slow blink of her hooded eyes. This was not a Na'vi woman standing before her, or even an Avatar inhabited by a formerly human soul.

A picture solidified in Sharon's mind, one of huge darkness that slid through the forest, unseen until it struck, slaying its prey with a single blow.

"Palulukan," said Sharon. She wondered how this had happened, how the spirit of a thanator had possessed the former Avatar. Then she snorted in self-derision. Of course, it was the will of Eywa that Na'dia wasn't in residence at the moment. No, that wasn't right – Na'dia was still there. It was more like Na'dia had taken on a lodger and retired for the evening, letting the lodger answer callers. Not that Sharon intended hammering on that particular door anytime soon.

Na'dia tilted her head and smiled a terrible smile, like a predator she was after a successful kill. "If self had doubt Tsahik was not, those doubts are no longer. Tsahik sees truly."

"I have an opportunity," said Sharon, not wanting to beat about the bush, "For an unusual solution to a difficult problem."

"Self listens," replied Na'dia, or rather the thing that was running her body at the moment.

"We need to capture a shuttle as the first step in preventing the tawtute from bombarding Pandora, and killing Eywa," explained Sharon. "I haven't been able to formulate a viable plan – everything I have modelled results in either destruction of the shuttle, or the pilot alerting the ship in orbit. I need a fresh mind."

Na'dia's brows creased slightly. "Tsahik suggests that problem is existence of pilot?"

"Yes," agreed Sharon. "The cockpit door is locked from the inside – the revised protocol the tawtute are using does not permit the loadmaster to open the door on the ground. It takes too long to open with other means." Renshaw had ruled out the use of explosives, as the cockpit door was in the same frame as the docking collar for the starship. There was too much chance of an explosion – no matter how small – warping the frame, and preventing a good seal to the starship docking collar. Not forgetting flying debris would most likely result in loss of pressure integrity. Sharon really didn't want to cark it through exposure to death pressure.

"Why not kill pilot?" queried Na'dia. "Self believes this is simplest solution."

"If only it was that easy," sighed Sharon. "The problem is the armoured windscreen. Any weapon we have that can breach the glass will either destroy the bird, fuck up the cockpit so the bird won't fly again, or just isn't accurate enough. Not even a BMG round will penetrate the windscreen, and if we shoot anywhere else, we could damage a vital system."

To Sharon's surprise, a low, rippling laugh spilled from Na'dia's lips. "Self has weapon to suit," she said. "Toruk Makto made self pe'efzhe - sniper rifle, thirty millimetre, from GAU 90 cannon used with AMP suit. Pe'efzhe fires armour-piercing PGU-14/Z depleted uranium discarding sabot rounds, as well as high explosive, incendiary, solid shot and canister. AP round should penetrate windscreen."

"Fuck me sideways," swore Sharon, mentally translating pe'efzhe as BFG. A thirty-mil cannon was a big fucking gun in anyone's language, and receiving a round up the clacker would spoil any shithead's day. "How accurate?"

"Self has shot fifty millimetre spread over two kilometres," answered Na'dia. There was no hint of pride or boasting in her voice, merely statement of fact.

Unfortunately Sharon could not source a sheet of armoured glass as used in the Valkyrie class shuttle craft. Instead, she substituted an armoured steel plate with comparable anti-ballistic qualities, positioning it two kilometres away from the tree she was now occupying with the palulukan slit. It was angled from the vertical at precisely the same angle as a Valkyrie windscreen, with a block of ballistic gel the same distance behind the plate as a pilot's head occupied behind the cockpit glass.

"It is wise that two-legs warrior wishes demonstration of self's ability," said Na'dia. "Self would insist on proof also."

* * *

><p>The sniper rifle was enormous, longer than Na'dia was tall. She was lying in classic sniper's position , the upholstered butt tucked hard into her shoulder, and her left eye screwed into the scope. Sharon was alongside Na'dia, on the opposite side to the ejection port. The GAU 90 threw an empty cartridge case over thirty feet, and Sharon had no wish to have a cartridge shaped burn anywhere on her highly coloured epidermis.<p>

Sharon was watching the target through a spotting scope, monitoring the wind drift and air temperature. "Ready," she said, leaving her mouth open. Sharon had taken the precaution of stuffing earplugs into her more than sensitive ears.

"BOOM!"

Every square inch of Sharon's skin felt the detonation, but she didn't shift her gaze from the scope. She saw the splash of the DU round hitting the armour plate. It was dead centre. Sharon suspected that there was now a dirty big hole in the block of ballistic gel.

Fifteen minutes later she was standing over the target, and observed to Na'dia, "Scratch one fake flog-off."

Na'dia said in a puzzled tone, "Is two-legs speaking English? Self does not recognise words."

Sharon just laughed.


	19. Chapter 19

"Come here," ordered Alìmtaw with a smile.

"What is in it for me?" teased Sharon coquettishly, slipping away from Alìmtaw's wandering hands. Today had been a good day. She had dropped in on the head spanner to see if he could whip up some smurf-sized vac-suits with orbital manoeuvring capability. When he replied that the standard design couldn't scale up to full Na'vi size without major redesign that would take a couple of months, Sharon was certain her plan was fucked. Or it was until she asked about scaling the design up for a small adult Na'vi, about a foot shorter than average.

The boss spanner replied that it would be easier than shitting a brick, and if the head shed authorised it, the stereolithography plant could whip up a couple in eight days. The tool had expressed some doubt whether she could find any Na'vi that size, but Sharon knew exactly who she wanted for the job. Unfortunately neither of them were MVC-qualified, so she was going to busy training the pogos in the VR simulator tomorrow.

"Your paint is fading," replied Alìmtaw. "All should know Tsahik of the Ikranaru by her colours."

Sharon allowed herself to be captured around her waist. "Is it a matter of my dignity?" she asked, placing her hands on Alìmtaw's shoulders and gazing into his eyes. She gasped with pleasure when his hands dropped to her hips and pulled her towards him.

"Srane," he agreed, and kissed her.

Sharon felt her joints turn to jelly. Once the kiss ended, it did not surprise her to find herself lying on the bed, looking up at Alìmtaw. She wrapped her legs around his hips and whispered, "I love you."

Alìmtaw took his queue and joined it to hers in tsahaylu. "You are beloved to me, Zharr'n," he answered softly, his eyes glowing with passion, and then they began to move as one.

Much, much later, Sharon was lying on her stomach, a warm glow radiating from her entire body. Alìmtaw had a light touch, making her skin tingle as he smoothed the body paint into her skin. "This paint takes a long time to fade," she observed. "The war paint the Omaticaya use remains on the skin for little more than a day."

"The Ikranaru use different paint for the Tsahik, and for the olo'eyktan," replied Alìmtaw. "It is not like war paint. Instead, it is absorbed into the skin, and after many applications will never fade. It is taboo for others to use this paint."

"So I will always be painted?" she asked, a little curious. It didn't really worry her – Sharon liked the complex abstract patterns on her skin. It reminded her of the many tattoos that had decorated her human body.

"Srane," he replied. "There is a song, the tìrol mune aytsmuke, that tells us why the Ikranaru use this paint."

The name of the song brought the lyrics into her mind. She quietly sung the words, which told a strange story of identical twin sisters, one good and one evil. The evil sister was jealous that her sibling was made Tsahik, pushing her into a flooded river and assuming both her paint and the role of Tsahik. The good sister did not drown, but after many adventures returned to the clan, and exposed the evil her sister had done.

The clan saw that they had been deceived, and would have slain the impostor, but the good sister stopped them, for despite all that happened she still loved her sister. Instead, she was given to another clan, a clan that had disputed hunting grounds with the Ikranaru, where the evil sister created much trouble and dissension, distracting the rival clan from the disputed territory. It seemed the moral of this song was that sometimes one problem was the answer to another problem.

From this time, the Ikranaru used the paint that did not fade, to ensure that no-one could assume the mantle of Tsahik or olo'eyktan without being Chosen.

"You sing well," commented Alìmtaw. "I wish that you would do this more often."

Sharon's face grew warm. "I am not used to singing where others may hear," she replied. It was true – before she had hooked up with Eywa, Sharon had only sung in the shower.

Alìmtaw chuckled. "It is one of the duties of the Tsahik to teach the songs of the clan to the young," he advised her. He paused, and blew gently on her back, make her shiver as the paint quickly cooled and dried. "Unlike war paint, the colours of the Tsahik do not cover the glowing spirit points on your skin. That is why the paint is so valued." He blew again on her back, and told her, "You can turn over now."

Sharon rolled over with alacrity, tucking her hands behind her head. "Paint me," she growled seductively, as she arched her back to thrust her breasts upwards. She gave a sensual wriggle, and watched Alìmtaw swallow twice, his hands shaking with desire. "I promise I'll be good."

Alìmtaw laughed. "My love has been replaced by her evil twin sister."

"You have no idea how bad I can be," she replied in a low, husky voice.

"I think I am about to find out," he smiled.

* * *

><p>The water tank looked cool and inviting, even though the water was at ambient temperature. Sharon was monitoring the zero-g simulation, while Sabine kept an eye on the candidates' heart rates and oxygen saturation, among other stats. Though they were the two shortest Avatars she knew, the pair were doing well, almost as though they had been born to VR microgravity simulations. Then again, they had been in the tank for a week.<p>

"You need to take Uniluke tonight, darling," observed Sabine. "Otherwise you will be joining Kim and Linda in squirting out a sprog in nine months time."

Sabine had picked up some of Sharon's speech habits over the last couple of months. It was rather sweet, thought Sharon, who then bit her lip in worry. She really didn't want to be a mother quite yet. There was too much to learn being Tsahik, if she ever got past this op. "You're right," she agreed. "Alìmtaw will have to do without for a night."

"The poor guy looks frazzled," observed Sabine. "You're not letting him get enough sleep."

"You're one to talk," retorted Sharon. "Maweypay can hardly keep his eyes open."

"Have you been watching Na'dia's stats?" asked Sabine, ignoring the comment about her mate. "The woman has no nerves at all." It was normal to see elevated heart rate and blood pressure for even the most phlegmatic individual in these simulations.

"I noticed," replied Sharon, who wasn't surprised at all. Ice water ran in Na'dia's veins. It had been the same on the range when the slit was shooting targets with the pe'efzhe. The bitch was a better shot than Sharon, her hands shook so little.

"Tania's core temperature is getting low," commented Sabine. "It's time to pull her out."

"Might as well end the sim," said Sharon. "They are both fucking Jedis at this, and Renshaw's briefing is in half-an-hour. We'd have to terminate it in ten minutes anyway." Sharon briefly wondered what a Jedi was, and sighed. She was a little disappointed there wasn't going to be a suit to fit her. She had loved the MVC training she had done in Earth orbit, even if she had never had an opportunity to use it. Two heads bobbed to the surface of the tank, and removed their full-faced masks. "Was it as good for you as it was for me, ladies?" she asked.

"That was fun," exclaimed Tania. She took Sharon's extended hand and allowed herself to be hauled out of the tank.

Na'dia added, "Self considered simulation most interesting." When she shook herself dry, both Sharon and Sabine's eyes dropped down to view the action, and when their eyes met, they grinned unashamedly at each other. After all, Na'dia's décolletage was rather spectacular – which was like calling Uluru a largish rock.

* * *

><p>Sharon finished the briefing. "Are there any questions?"<p>

The sixteen men in an eclectic mix of fatigues and native dress exchanged glances. Finally, Fingers put up his hand and asked, "Sir, is this the real deal? Are we sure the RDA will attack when we resist the resumption of mining?"

It was interesting that no-one questioned that it was given that mining should not resume. Every single one of these men was now mated to Na'vi – even Fingers. The experience had turned their perceptions and belief entirely around.

"Yes," replied Renshaw, his voice serious. "Their orders are quite clear. If there is any resistance to the mining program, all Na'vi resistance is to be crushed without mercy."

Fingers shook his head. "This is unbelievable," he muttered, and several of the men shifted the weight on their feet, a subtle display of discomfort.

Sharon raised her voice. "Fingers, you were there when we pulled out of Waziristan, when the RDA contracted to the UN to quell the jihadi insurrection. You saw the nukes go off, just like I fucking did."

"Yeah, Spoons," he mumbled reluctantly.

"If they used nukes on their own people, just because it was cheaper than maintaining an occupation force," continued Sharon, "Do you think they will hesitate using them on us? We aren't even the same fucking species."

The unenthusiastic soldier looked down at his feet, as though he was verifying the number of toes on his feet had not reduced from ten to eight. He raised his head, and nodded, as though he had made his decision. "Ok," he growled. "I'm in." He glanced across at Sharon to say, "It's a good plan, Spoons."

There was a low murmur of approval from the rest of the men, except for one. "Sir," he asked, "Who is flying the shuttle? We don't have any qualified orbital pilots."

"That would be me," said Renshaw. "I ran through an accelerated qualification course before I left Earth."

One of the men chuckled, "That sounds like the Mandarin. He's a fucking puppet-master, even from five light-years away."

Sharon's spine stiffened at hearing her grandfather being described in lowly terms, by one who did not know him. Then she relaxed, realising that the words were spoken in admiration. Not only that, it was a sentiment Sharon shared.

Her sudden tension must have shown on Sharon's face, for the soldier that had spoken said, "Spoons, your grandpa is fucking awesome."

"Irayo," she blushed.

"Colonel, how are you going to persuade the shitheads upstairs to send down a shuttle?" asked Fingers.

"The flight is already scheduled, at 1500 tomorrow," answered Renshaw. "The captive humans have 'agreed' to join with the RDA on the condition that they are given Avatar bodies. The shuttle flight will be carrying the Avatar gene-splicing equipment, and the gestation chamber." He focused on Sharon as he continued, "It is imperative that this equipment is not damaged in the assault."

Na'dia raised her voice. "It will not be enough to capture these two starships. More will be required, to remove the threat to Eywa and all Na'vi, even though the humans are doomed."

Renshaw frowned, "What are you proposing, Na'dia?"

The skin crawled on Sharon's back as Na'dia outlined her proposal.

* * *

><p>It was hard for Sharon to throw herself into Uniluke with her usual abandon. She was just too uptight, even through the drug-induced delirium of tirea'tutee and the kali'weya sting.<p>

Afterwards, when she awoke in Sabine's arms, the eastern horizon only beginning to lighten, her sister asked, "What is the matter, darling? You're so tense."

"I'm afraid I'm going to screw up," answered Sharon truthfully. She could do no less.

Sabine kissed her forehead gently. "Eywa has chosen you for this task, Sharon. She would not have done so if she thought you would fail."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," retorted Sharon drily. "Now I really feel under pressure." Since when had Sabine become more Na'vi than the Na'vi? Sharon turned away from Sabine to gaze up into the heavens. Even after all this time, the night sky of Pandora still took her breath away. "Are we doing the right thing?"

"Ah," said Sabine. "The old absolutism versus relativism conundrum. I'm afraid I don't believe in moral absolutes, not when it comes to down to a matter of survival – personal and species. We – and by that I mean the Na'vi - really don't have any choice."


	20. Chapter 20

Linda checked her ammo feed chute, the roar of the turbines in her ears. It wouldn't do for the Valkyrie to have a hull-loss incident, just because of fucking bird-strike. Not today.

That was why Samson Two-One was on shuttle escort, flying lazy circuits at five thousand feet.

Kim's voice came over the com channel. "Shuttle incoming at eleven o'clock." There was a slight pause, when she added in a lazy voice, "Valkyrie Zero-Six, this is Samson Two-One. I have you on visual."

A drawling Texan replied, "Y'all sound right purty, Two-One. I'll formate on your starboard side in one mike."

"Affirmative, Zero-Six," replied Kim. "The air is fucking lumpy today. We'll maintain position at two hundred feet off your wing." That was double the usual separation for shuttle escort.

"Thanks for the heads-up, Two-One," replied the shuttle pilot. "What about wild-life?"

Kim replied, "Almost none about. We're not expecting trouble."

* * *

><p>"Holy crap!" swore the co-pilot as the port wing dropped like a stone. He pushed the two lift engine throttles through to the stops. "She wasn't fucking wrong about the turbulence."<p>

"Ease off," ordered the pilot, as the shuttle regained attitude. He took a quick glance at the escort chopper out the side window. He could see it bouncing up and down like a yo-yo. The chopper pilot might have been cautious, but by God she was good. If there had been this much turbulence back home in Texas, he would be checking the weather radar for twisters. "Did you see..." he started, and shook his head in denial.

"See what?"

The pilot scowled. It was hard to tell with smurfs in fatigues, but he could have sworn the door gunner was both female and pregnant. "Nothing. Configure the lift engines for maximum lift." There was no point in taking chances, not when the air was this rough.

"Got it, boss," replied the co-pilot.

* * *

><p>"Smooth landing, Zero-Six," advised Kim.<p>

"Thanks for the assist," replied the pilot.

As the chopper slid across to the chopper flightline, Linda keyed her comms unit to vox. "Fat, dumb and stupid," she commented.

"Shut up," snapped Kim, as she planted Samson Two-One back on the ground. You'll hex the op."

"Sorry," said Linda. She was just too keyed up, and was jealous of Sharon's role in the op. It had gone swimmingly so far, but her small part was over. Linda touched the growing bulge in her belly and smiled. Perhaps her child would have a future.

* * *

><p>Fingers ran in to the Valkyrie nose wheel while the engines were still running, flipped open a panel inside the wheel well and plugged in his comms unit. "Welcome to Hell's Gate Interstellar Space Port, Zero-Six," he announced. "My name is Jason, and I'll be your crew-chief today."<p>

"Where is McKettrick?" asked the pilot. "I thought he was the usual crew chief."

Fingers laughed, "He's getting married today." It was more or less true – Sergeant McKettrick had disappeared into the forest yesterday with a female from the Omaticaya. Another Avatar had bit the dust. "You're all clear. Shut your engines down, switch to local comms and open your golden gate. The Colonel is anxious to unload the cargo."

* * *

><p>The co-pilot commented, "I thought there was a no fraternisation rule."<p>

"I heard that it had been relaxed," replied the pilot, as his colleague powered down the Valkyrie. He pressed a button on the softscreen monitor in front of him, announcing, "Switching to local comms. Tower, do you read?"

"Hell's Gate Tower reads you five by five on local comms, Zero-Six. Welcome to Pandora," responded the Tower ATC. The pilot recalled the voice from one of his prior missions – some dude called Foster, he thought.

"Engines spooling down and lowering cargo door," advised the co-pilot.

* * *

><p>Sharon stepped off the cargo carrier with Renshaw and one of the Spetznatz guys as the shuttle's rear door dropped down. It was almost like boarding one of the many trash-haulers she had flown over her career, with the exception that she was holding a pistol behind her back. The heavy can screwed onto the barrel wasn't there as a silencer. It was there to reduce the pistol performance to subsonic rounds, and in concert with the soft-nosed rounds, there shouldn't be any damage to the bird – as long as she didn't miss.<p>

Renshaw had pinged her about her colours, so she was wearing a baseball cap to shade her face, as well as fatigues. She had tried to put boots on, but they were just too damn uncomfortable – even her most worn in boots. It seemed her feet had spread more than a little since she had last worn them.

When the ramp touched down, Sharon looked up, seeing the loadmaster wave in greeting. She lifted her pistol smoothly to a two-handed firing position and fired. The pistol coughed quietly – a perfect headshot. She couldn't take the chance that the cunts were wearing Ned Kelly pajamas – they would keep out the subsonic rounds she was using, so head shots were the order of the day.

The poor bastard standing behind the load master didn't have time to register the brains splashed over his exo-pack mask. His corpse was slumping to the floor less than a second after the loadmaster. Sharon didn't bother shifting her aim to the other side. The Spetznatz fonc had already taken out the opposition on that side.

She ran up the ramp and forward to the bulkhead, where she met the Spetznatz fonc. He nodded at her, indicating that his side was clear. Sharon touched her throat-mike and subvocalised, "Cargo struck down."

* * *

><p>Ninat had insisted on spotting for Na'dia, even though it had only been days since she had delivered her daughter to the world. Na'dia had not objected – it was important that the spotter was familiar with how she worked, and it would have taken too long for one of the Avatars to adjust to Na'dia. It was much more efficient this way.<p>

The soft sound of her voice calling out the target and wind velocity was almost soothing, when Na'dia heard the go command. "Cargo struck down."

Na'dia flicked on the laser rangefinder, targeting the forehead of the pilot through the cockpit window. She said quietly, "Co-pilot. Open airlock doors or pilot dies." Her words were transmitted to the flight crew via the crew chief's receiver, minimising any chance of the starship intercepting her narrowcast.

The co-pilot yelled, "It's a trap! Get out of here!"

Her finger stroked the trigger. Na'dia pictured in her mind's eye the ignition of the primer on the cartridge, followed by the long slow burn of the propellant, expanding into a hot gas and pushing the cannon shell down the barrel of the BFG. She felt the beginning of the recoil, slamming the butt into her shoulder, as the rifling engaged the shell, spinning it to impart gyroscopic stability to the lethal projectile.

When the shell exploded from the barrel, the enclosing sabot fell away, exposing the depleted uranium needle that was the real payload. Although the needle left the barrel travelling at almost Mach 3, the dense air hardly heated the projectile, although it had slowed to just under Mach 1.5 by the time it impacted on the armoured glass of the cockpit window.

The energy it spent penetrating the armoured glass dropped the speed of the needle below the speed of sound, so by the time it penetrated into the cockpit the round was subsonic. In the intervening three feet between the window and the head of the pilot, the needle had yawed to the right, so that it was travelling almost entirely sideways when it impacted on the bridge of the pilot's nose. Still, the energy of the round was immense, exploding the top of the skull and the brain it protected into a pink spray that stained the rear of the cockpit.

Na'dia had already shifted her aim, when she ordered, "Co-pilot. Open airlock doors or co-pilot dies."

* * *

><p>Sharon heard a faint wet sound from the cockpit, almost like an over-ripe mango falling out the fridge door and hitting the kitchen lino. It seemed palulukan girl had taken a shot. So what if Na'dia was better at long range than her. Sharon flicked off her baseball cap and holstered her pistol, knowing she was still the queen of the doorkickers.<p>

Seconds later, the airlock door slid open and Renshaw pushed past. Everything was ticketty-boo, even when the co-pilot's screaming body was flung back out the airlock door. Sharon grabbed the struggling human by the shirtfront and slammed him against the bulkhead.

* * *

><p>The co-pilot could see nothing but a snarling alien face inches in front of him, its natural blue skin hidden by savage war-paint, and long canine teeth reminiscent of one of the extinct big cats rather than anything human. He had never been so terrified in his life.<p>

"Is there a safe code?" it hissed, its heavily beaded hair clicking softly.

He looked dumbly into its strange golden eyes, and could not say anything.

"A safe code," it repeated. "Is there any code to tell the _Dog Star_ you are still in control of the Valkyrie? I'll rip off your mask if you don't give me the truth."

Strangely enough, the alien was speaking English with a strong Australian accent, but he had no doubt it meant what it said. The co-pilot shook his head, as warmth flowed down his left leg.

"Fuck!" swore the alien, dropping the co-pilot to the floor, twisting its face in a terrible snarl. "You fucking little prick. You fucking pissed on me!" It turned to another alien, this one without any paint on its face, and ordered, "Yuri, get this piece of shit out of here, before I tear his fucking head off. He fucking pissed on me!"

The co-pilot's awareness thankfully faded to black as the other alien picked him up and carried him out of the shuttle.

* * *

><p>Sharon stripped off her soiled clothing, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the ammonia stench. She was never going to wear fucking tawtute clothes ever again.<p>

"Sharon, what the hell are you doing?" demanded Renshaw, looking out of the cockpit. "You're supposed to be supervising unloading of the gene-splicing chamber, instead of playing striptease."

She was about to start complaining that she had been pissed on, when she clamped her mouth shut. Renshaw wouldn't be interested in excuses, no matter how good they were. She would just have to suck up her distaste. At the moment, she wasn't the Tsahik of the Ikranaru. Instead, she was a lowly grunt trooper, stabbed to unload this fucking huge piece of kit and get it stowed away. What was worse, the fucking clock was ticking and she wasn't getting paid by the hour. "Yes, Boss," she replied. "I'm on it."

Sharon would just have to do the job starkers. If she was lucky, she would have time to hose herself down and change back into proper clothes.

As it turned out, Sharon did have time to wash and put on new clothing. Yuri had told Alìmtaw about her misfortune, and the darling man had brought a bucket of water together with a fresh loincloth and breast ornament. She had to be content with a quick whore's bath – not for the first time.

While she was cleaning up, she overheard Na'dia arguing with her mates Ninat and Txep'ean about why they couldn't go on the next phase of the mission. Actually, it was more like Na'dia telling them how it was going to be, and her mates arguing.

She pointed her chin at the domestic and asked Alìmtaw, "Why aren't you insisting on coming up, like those two."

Alìmtaw half-shrugged, answering, "I have seen you 'doorkicking' in the playhouse. This is not a skill I have, so I will not take a place in this war-party. I would be in the way. If, on the other hand, such a party was hunting enemies in the forest, then I would come."

Sharon felt a smile twist her face. "You are much wiser than I, my love," she said. "I would be like Ninat, insisting on sharing the danger."

His eyes twinkled as Alìmtaw replied, "You are right. I am much wiser than you."

He stopped any clever retort by closing her mouth with a long, lingering kiss. Sharon quite forgot where she was, her eyes shut and arms flung around her mate's neck.

"Spoons!" yelled an impatient voice. "Spoons! Stop fucking snogging and pull the lead out. We've got an op to run."

The kiss dissolved oh so reluctantly. Alìmtaw murmured, "You had best go as they ask, my beloved."

Sharon bit her lower lip. When it came down to it, she did not want to leave her mate. She only hesitated for a moment, and nodded. "Eywa ngahu," she whispered.

"Eywa ngahu," echoed Alìmtaw.

Once on board, she turned to look through the closing cargo door and caught a last fleeting glimpse of her mate. An ache filled her soul, wishing...Sharon refused to even think the words. There was a mission to undertake, and targets to service. No fucking distractions.

Sharon sat down and pulled the harness tight, accepting an exo-pack from the grunt next to her. After she donned it and activated the seal, she checked the carbon dioxide and hydrogen sulphide levels. Both gas reservoirs were full, Sharon was good to go.

The cargo door did not shut like a knell of doom. Instead, it closed with a hiss and a clunk as the locking lugs engaged. As far as Sharon was concerned, the noise might as well have been the bells announcing Armageddon. She might never see her loved ones again.


	21. Chapter 21

The shuttle tilted slightly under Sharon's backside as it lifted off the ground. She grinned across at Na'dia and Tania – the only other females on board and quipped, "Place your tray tables and seat backs in a fucking upright position." She had noticed that Na'dia – despite the apparent coldness of her palulukan spirit – had also been looking out the rear door as it closed shut. Tania, other hand, was looking down, studying her hands. She seemed...preoccupied?

Sharon called out, "Hey, Tania! Us girls have to stick together." The woman looked up from the contemplation of her hands and smiled thinly, but did not reply.

The pistol Sharon was carrying in complete contravention to orders was digging into her back. The Boss was worried about explosive decompression, and had ruled that only muscle powered weapons were to be used. She surreptitiously wriggled and moved it around to the side – the prospect of a pistol shaped bruise in the middle of her back did not appeal – and tightened the four point harness. She was going to need it.

The climb to altitude was smooth yet relentless, topping out at seventy thousand feet, when the engine noise died away. Sharon knew that outside the sky would be black, and hoped that the few cargo pallets had been properly strapped down. If not, they were all dead.

The shuttle nudged over into a shallow dive, when there was a sudden explosion form the rear of the Valkyrie. The harness straps dug cruelly into her side, and her neck muscles strained to hold her head upright as the SCRAMjets ignited. The shuttle rocketed up out of the atmosphere at 4g. It vibrated and shook violently, threatening to tear itself apart. Sharon's aching neck could have killed the gingers who put in the longitudinal seating, just to save a little weight.

Still, it wasn't the first time she had gone through the train wreck of a military shuttle launch.

The brutal acceleration ended as suddenly as it began – with another explosion – when the SCRAMjets ran out of atmosphere, and Sharon was flung forward in her harness. Her stomach dropped in the few precious seconds of free fall, until the NERVA engine cut in.

Sharon yelped as the smooth acceleration dug the harness back into her bruised flesh. At least it wasn't four gravities. Only a few minutes and the shuttle would be in orbit.

A wistful thought crossed her mind. Perhaps climbing to orbit wouldn't be so bad if only she had a window.

"I hope the fucking windscreen patch holds," she muttered. Just what was the name of the twentieth century horror vid where the alien monster got vacuum-eviscerated by a tiny hole in a spacecraft window?

* * *

><p>Maweypay, Alìmtaw and Sabine watched the launch in silence.<p>

After the noise had gone, and the tiny speck of the shuttle finally disappeared, Alìmtaw asked, "What is it like to look down on the world?"

Sabine could not answer his question at first. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "It is like the first time one joins with the Tree of Voices. To see the entire world with your own eyes, as though one could hold it in one's hands, the wonder of it, the glory...there are not the words."

Alìmtaw smiled, "I think you found the words, my sister."

They stood there for a while longer, until Maweypay interrupted, "It is time to return home. This is not our place. Zharr'n will know where to find us, if we go home."

"Yes," agreed Sabine, taking Maweypay's hand in her own. "It is time."

* * *

><p>As soon as the acceleration ended, Sharon punched the quick release for her harness, and drifted away from the side of the spacecraft, forgetting everything she had learnt about microgravity. "Shit!" she swore, hooking her toe through a loop of her harness, and hauling herself back to her seat.<p>

"You'll catch it from the Colonel if he sees that pistol," commented Fingers drily.

"I like it," she replied. The weight felt good in her hands.

"Your funeral," he replied.

She grinned at him. "I'm Tsahik," she retorted, unholstering the pistol, spinning it around her finger, blowing imaginary smoke from the barrel and reholstering it, like some unworldly reincarnation of Annie Oakley. "You can't have a funeral without a Tsahik."

There was a general chuckle from the soldiers in the cargo hold.

"Ok, ankles," she said. "Time to get busy." Sharon pushed off toward the weapon pallets tied down in the middle of the spacecraft. She could see her bow there, and she wanted it.

* * *

><p>Renshaw's voice came over the tactical comm. "Initiating burn."<p>

Fuck. Another five minutes to crump-in time, and this bunch of tubbins would have to arc-up. Sharon grabbed for the nearest handhold. "In position, meatheads. Five mikes to centre bounce," she yelled.

Sharon swam towards the airlock, only to be forestalled by Na'dia. "Self will go first. Better with knives," she stated.

"It's your party," conceded Sharon.

It seemed that they waited forever, the silence only interrupted by the occasional hissing roar of attitude thrusters. Finally, there was a grinding of metal above them, followed by a ratcheting of gears and clunking of locking lugs. "We have hard dock," announced Renshaw.

Ahead of Sharon, Na'dia grabbed the door handle, twisted it and hauled it down. There was a hiss as the slight pressure differential equalised, followed by a swirl of ice crystals. The small Na'vi woman reached up to open the matching door on the starship, and then disappeared up the docking tunnel.

"Go Fingers!" she yelled. He was detailed to secure the other shuttle craft. Sharon followed him up the tunnel – there was a human corpse oozing fresh blood half-blocking the tunnel. She pushed it to one side, swearing under her breath about untidy fucking veggies, and shot into the central core of the starship, her sense of up and down suddenly flipping over.

She paused briefly, re-orienting her senses, and nodded to Na'dia. The two women were followed by Tania, while a brief scream sounded from the other shuttle. They drifted down the corridor, the frame numbers counting down one by one, every twentieth frame a pressure door blocking their way.

At frame forty, the pressure door was dogged shut. Sharon rested with her back against the bulkhead, and nodded to Tania to open the door. The idea was that Tania would open the door while Sharon could swarm through it. They were about to go when Na'dia caught Tania by the wrist. "No," she said quietly. "Self feels tawtute behind door with weapon. Hide. Self will deal with this."

Na'dia took a deep breath and faded away, the only sign of her presence a faint rippling distortion in the air. Although Sharon had seen this before, she still swore softly, "Holy fuck!" There was a faint metallic ring - the palulukan girl must have drawn her short swords.

"Open door," ordered Na'dia softly, her voice coming from nowhere.

Tania yanked the handle down. As soon as the door started to open a pistol barked, the bullet striking the door and leaving a spall mark of hot lead. The shooter was a little eager.

A few seconds later Na'dia must have entered the corridor. A voice shouted over the PA, "Shoot it!"

Sharon distinctly heard the shooter say, "What? There is nothing there. The blue monkeys are behind the door."

"It's right in front of you!" screamed the voice.

There was a wet sounding noise. Sharon rolled around the door, covering the large space behind with her unauthorised pistol. There were only five things occupying the large rotating compartment - one headless body spraying blood, a matching head spinning slowly across the compartment, and finally two blue feet and a tail disappearing through a hatch.

"Bitch!" exclaimed Sharon. Palulukan girl really was a bloodthirsty slit. She pushed off, heading for the opposite hatch. There wasn't any time to fuck around. The _Dog Star _was only in radio shadow from the incoming _Venture Star _for another ten minutes. If there were any tawtute alive with access to a transmitter after the deadline, the Na'vi were fucked. Speed was everything.

Sharon grabbed one side of the hatch and pulled her body through the opening, her pistol in hand. She sensed rather than saw Tania follow her through the hatch.

The first level was empty of life – none of the work compartments had any occupants. Besides, the gravity here was less than a tenth of a g. Even then, Sharon felt the disconcerting effects of the Coriolis force, her gorge rising. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to use her pistol – she was doubtful whether she could compensate for the spin of the module, especially with no external references. It would get more disorienting as she ascended to the outer levels, the levels with higher gravity. This part of the op would have to be close work – close and personal.

With a muttered curse, she shoved her pistol back in its holster and drew her hunting knife. This was taking too long. Without turning around, she ordered, "Secure each level. I'll go for the mess." The mess hall and crew gym was on the highest level of the rotating hab module, just above the sleeping quarters.

At each level, Sharon paused briefly, her ears flicking to try to pick up any sound of life, but all she could hear around were the noises of soulless machinery. Somehow, she knew that they would be waiting for her on the mess deck.

"Fucking cunts!" swore Sharon. The pressure hatch over the ladder to the mess deck was sealed. If there was anyone in there with a firearm, as soon as she opened the hatch her head would be blown off. Quickly, she opened a small pouch on her belt and extracted her toothpaste. Her thumb flicked off the top. A smooth gesture applied the plastique, and she shoved in a det.

Now came the time for luck.

"Thud!"

The door flew up, hinges and locking mechanism smashed. Her ears ringing from the sharp explosion, she launched herself through the hatchway, crashing to the floor of the mess deck, to be greeted by screams. Sharon scrambled to her feet, almost tripping over a headless corpse – the flying door had smashed its skull into paste. Fuck! There were over thirty tawtute here – far more than she expected.

A shouting male was raising a pistol. Sharon lunged for him, batting the pistol away with her free hand. She heard the snapping of bone, the pistol flying off into the crowd. She was screwing up by the numbers. There was only one thing to do. Her knife plunged deep into the tawtute's belly, and ripped up, spreading a fountain of salty blood and torn viscera across the floor, and coincidentally her skin as well.

Someone was scrambling for the pistol. Automatically, Sharon's hand fell to her holster. Her hand rose, aimed, and fired. The soft cough of the pistol did not hide the splashing of skull fragments and brains on the floor.

"Freeze!" she yelled. There were too many to kill, and if they swarmed her in a sudden rush, even she did not think she could stop them all.

There was sudden shocked silence. Sharon knew what they were thinking – a smurf, an alien savage was using a firearm.

Sharon glared down at the short, stumpy creatures. "On the floor, face down, hands crossed over the back of your heads!" she ordered.

"Traitor!" snarled a dark-skinned male – he must have twigged to her hands. The number of fingers she had was the only thing that looked human on her now. Everyone else seemed too shocked to move. Sharon didn't have time for this. Her finger squeezed the trigger again – another perfect headshot. Perhaps the Coriolis force wasn't such a bitch after all.

The tawtute dropped to the floor.

"Anyone who moves, dies," she announced. Two grunts dropped onto the floor beside her, followed by a third. "Strip them," ordered Sharon. "Remove any weapons and electronics – if they are naked, they can't hide anything. If any resist, kill them."

* * *

><p>Sharon climbed back toward the core. It had been a close-run thing – they had secured the starship with less than two minutes of shadow from the <em>Venture Star<em> remaining. The final act was flushing the outgoing message store.

"Good work, Sharon," said Renshaw, clapping her on the shoulder.

She nodded, silently acknowledging the praise, trying not to shrug off the semi-unwelcome greeting. Her spirit felt empty. "I couldn't kill them all," she said to no-one in particular, when a shiver rippled down her spine. Sharon had come so close to failing. "Tania," she said, "Come with me – I want to make sure of the other hab module."

* * *

><p>The other hab module was filled with gutted and headless corpses. Na'dia had gone through this place like a buzz-saw through cheap plywood.<p>

On the third level, Tania placed her hand on Sharon's arm, stopping her from moving to the next level. "It is not right that Na'dia does this," said Tania softly. "Her spirit carries enough blood."

Sharon turned in surprise at the interruption.

"You know what I speak of," said Tania.

It did not need to be said. Sharon knew exactly what Tania meant.

* * *

><p>The two women dropped down into the bridge of the starship.<p>

"Is other module clear?" asked Na'dia, her voice level and calm. Her blades were pointing to the floor, relaxed in her hands. Blood slowly dripped down the blades and dripped off their points. Her bloodstained footprints marked the floor.

"We cleared it," said Tania abruptly.

"Yeah," agreed Sharon. Stupidly she could not keep her mouth shut. "But we didn't fucking butcher everyone."

Na'dia nodded. "Is waste of good meat," she said. "Self understands. Flesh will rot before it may be eaten."

"Shit," murmured Sharon. "They were right. You really are out of your fucking mind."

Tania replied, "She is not crazy. Palulukan are neither Na'vi nor human. They do not think like us."

The bloody woman gazed steadily at the two uniltìranyu, making them shift uneasily from one foot to the other. "What does it matter how the tawtute die," Na'dia said eventually. "As long as they perform some use in dying. And die the tawtute must, if Pandora is to live."

Renshaw slid down the access ladder from the starship core, landing lightly on his feet behind them. "Na'dia is right," he said, his face grim. "We have no choice if we wish to live free."


	22. Chapter 22

"I wish you hadn't taken so many captives," commented Renshaw. "It adds a layer of complexity to the operation."

Sharon snapped, "Are you saying I should have killed them all?" Her knife leapt into her left hand.

"It would have been simpler," he commented. "That's all." He was sure that Na'dia would have embraced that particular solution. Sharon suffered from the curse of many good soldiers. While she had no problems killing in the heat of action, cold-blooded murder was just not in her soul.

The knife slid slowly back into its sheath. The last of the captives had just been put into cryo. It had been Sharon's suggestion as the most efficient way to ensure the prisoners did not cause trouble. Well, second most efficient way – Renshaw was right. Killing them would have been simpler, and they couldn't afford the time to take them down to the surface in a shuttle flight.

There was always the chance that one of them would manage to gain access to a comms device and sneak a message to the _Venture Star__**.**_

At least with the humans in cryo work on converting the environmental system to a Pandoran atmosphere could continue without any complications required to keep the humans alive. Renshaw had enough of eating and drinking while wearing an exo-pack.

"Putting the tawtute in cryo doesn't necessarily mean we will ever wake them up," commented Renshaw slyly, waiting for the inevitable explosion from the Tsahik of the Ikranaru. To his surprise, Sharon did not immediately leap into the minefield. She was silent for almost thirty seconds until she gave a reply.

"Tsa'u kawng nga ma'Ren'zhore," she said slowly. "Nga nì'ul sìltsan to tsa'u."

Colonel Renshaw felt a deep sense of shame mixed with surprise. It was an unworthy thought indeed, and he realised that Sharon was not speaking as Trooper King, doorkicker extraordinaire formerly of the Aussie SAS Regiment. Instead, she was speaking as Zharr'n te King Xiùlán'ite, Tsahik of the Ikranaru. He had never heard her talk like this before.

"Txoa oe Tsahik," he said humbly.

"Better," she said, switching back to English, her eyes sparkling impishly.

"However," he said, "As you have given me the little problem of the human captives, I think it only fair that you also deal with a little problem I have."

"Ah, you seek some balance," she replied, tilting her head to one side. "This is not a bad thing."

"There are a number of bodies distributed about the _Dog Star _after our little hijacking exercise," he said. "Everyone else is busy, except for you ladies. Why don't you get a working party together and clean them up. They will start to go off by tomorrow if nothing is done."

Sharon sighed. His request was fair and reasonable, and he was the commander of this mission, after all. It seemed she had just been gently stabbed with yet another pineapple. The worst thing was that she deserved it, and she knew it – the Boss hadn't even pinged her about sneaking the pistol on the assault.

* * *

><p>It took three days to collect all the body parts and remove all the bloodstains. Sharon had a lot of fun asking palulukan girl provocative questions, seeing how far she could outrage the sensibilities of any males that might be hanging around.<p>

The best one of these was after Na'dia made an idle comment about the taste of Na'vi – not regarding anything as innocent as muff munching, but rather fang wrapping a juicy blue-skinned thigh tartare. Of course, this happened when they were stuffing the lower half of a human corpse into the organic waste digester, and poor old Yuri was passing by at the time. The delicate little flower faded quite away.

It was strange, though. Virtually everyone thought Na'dia under the sway of the palulukan was a cold, ruthless predator. Well, that was true enough – the slit was an incredibly brutal and efficient killer, although that wasn't all she was. Sharon figured out pretty quickly that palulukan girl was only a facade. The real Na'dia was quite different – and she wasn't that far off how Sharon felt about things.

Sharon knew for a fact that every spare moment Na'dia had would find her at one of the few windows, looking down at the world with longing eyes, as though she was desperately storing up the sight of Pandora for a bleak future. It was as plain as day that Na'dia did not want to be in orbit on adventure. She wanted to go home, to be with her mates and child above anything else.

Mind you, Sharon felt pretty much the same about going home. Being in orbit was fun, although it would have been better if Sabine and Alìmtaw were there. Sharon had never managed – despite strenuous efforts to achieve this life goal – to score a session of zero gravity feline finangling, and it looked like she was doomed to be disappointed.

It was pretty much a moot point, though. The Uniltìranyu had to keep their exo-packs on. The prospect of the old in and out without snogging had little appeal for Sharon. It was almost as bad trying to fang a rat pack. Breath out, remove exo-pack, take bite, replace and reseal exo-pack, chew, breath, swallow. Repeat as necessary, ad infinitum. This tedious necessity made eating a chore, but the choices were restricted to be bored or be hungry. Or be dead.

The sooner the gingers changed over life support to a Pandoran atmosphere the better.

Sharon sat on a table alongside Na'dia looking out the mess deck window, watching the world flip past as the hab modules continued their endless cycle around the starship call. It was a little disconcerting – to stop from throwing up, Sharon had to more or less dissociate her brain from the gut-wrenching view. She did not realise her hands were slowly flexing and twisting,

"Self notices hands of Zharr'n," said Na'dia, without taking her eyes from the window. "They do not stop moving."

"What?" exclaimed Sharon, looking down at her hands in surprise. "Oh. I like to keep my hands busy." When her left hands started to tug at the fingers on her right hand, popping the knuckles, it was almost as though someone else was doing it. "I have to do something, otherwise I go crazy." That was why she always been in trouble, at least on Earth.

Na'dia turned to Sharon to ask, "What kind of things?"

There were so many things she liked to do. Running. Shaping a board. Surfing. Pumping iron. Shooting on the range. It all depended on the time and place. There was an empty wall next to the window that was screaming to be covered. "Here, in this place, I would like to paint," she said.

Na'dia smiled. "I saw paints in one of the sleeping quarters."

* * *

><p>Renshaw entered the mess deck, one eyebrow flicking up quizzically. A large mural was taking form on one wall, a mural of the Pandoran forest. The centrepiece was a Na'vi woman standing with her hand resting on the shoulder of a massive thanator.<p>

"It's Na'dia," he said.

"Yes," agreed Sharon, not taking her eyes away from her work. "She makes a good model. Her cheekbones..."

"Where is she?" asked Renshaw. Both of Sharon's hands held brushes, painting entirely different scenes. It was quite disconcerting.

"Sitting on the table," replied Sharon distractedly, her brushes flying. It did not seem to matter that her exo-pack mask was covered with spots of many colours. Needless to say, there was no sign of Na'dia.

"How do you do it?" he asked. "I though only da Vinci could paint using two hands."

Sharon smiled faintly. "I've always been able to do this, ever since I started tagging when I was a kid. Especially when I was in a rush."

"It's incredible to watch," replied Renshaw.

Sharon took a deep breath, her hands slowing. Reluctantly, she pulled them away from the wall. "The hard part is stopping. There was always the temptation to do just a little bit more, and then the fucking rozzers would come and toss me in the drunk tank to teach me a lesson. I got to know most of the local deros pretty well, because I wasn't a fast learner."

"I came to let you know that you can take your exo-pack off," he said. "We're running Pandoran atmosphere throughout the entire ship, except for the cryo chambers.

"Fucking awesome," uttered Sharon, pulling the exo-pack away from her face and dragging in a lungful of air that didn't smell of rubber and plastic. It wasn't as good as forest air, but it was a hell of a lot better than what she had been breathing.

Renshaw frowned. "Why is Na'dia wearing ballet shoes?"

Sharon blinked and looked at the image. "So she is. I hadn't noticed." Sharon shrugged. "Sometimes things creep into my pictures without me knowing how or why."

A small shiver ran down the Colonel's spine. Out of curiosity, he had read Na'dia's RDA personnel file after they met for the first time. He had thought that it was odd for a classically trained dancer to morph into a deadly killer in an alien body, but then life was full of strange things. Renshaw wondered how Sharon could have discovered Na'dia's human background, because Na'dia wasn't exactly the most talkative of women.

Perhaps it wasn't that strange for a former doorkicker to become a Na'vi holy woman.

* * *

><p>"It is a very good likeness," observed Tania, standing in front of the mural.<p>

Sharon was in the kitchen area, cleaning the brushes. She smiled to herself – there wasn't much point to cleaning them. It was unlikely anyone would ever use the brushes again. The former owner was either dead or in cryo, so it was something of a pointless activity. "It is kind of you to say so," replied Sharon. Still, it kept her hands busy and Sharon out of trouble.

"Renshaw asked me to get you," advised Tania. "He says it is time to start pre-breathing oxygen, to make sure we flush the nitrogen from our blood.

"Ok," agreed Sharon, "I've more or less finished here." She stood the brushes up in a glass so the bristles could drain, and vaulted over the low counter, taking care not to crack her head against the low ceiling. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>Putting the EVA gear on Tania and Na'dia was like assembling one of the three dimensional jigsaw puzzles Sharon had played with as a toddler. Sharon had already sealed Na'dia up when she told Tania, "Hold your breath."<p>

Quickly, Sharon removed the mask supplying the nitrogen free gas from Tania's face. With a well-practiced move she placed the helmet over Tania's head and fastened it to the suit locking ring with a quick twist. "You're both fucking crazy," she said. It should be Sharon on this mission – if not for a foot of extra height, Sharon reflected, it would be her in one of the EVA suits. These two didn't have the training.

"Plan is most effective way to take starship with fewest two legs casualties," said Na'dia, her voice muffled by the helmet. "Not lowest risk plan though."

"How are your status lights?" asked Sharon.

"All clear," replied Na'dia

"All clear," echoed Tania. Her face was distinctly paler than usual. Sharon checked their gear was all securely fastened. If they dropped anything outside, they weren't going to be getting it back.

Sharon pushed them into the airlock – there was barely enough room for the two Na'vi. "You're good to go," she said a trifle loudly, and gave them the thumbs up. The two women in suits clumsily returned the gesture, and Sharon carefully closed the door and dogged it tight. "Air lock secure," she announced.

"Sharon, come up front," ordered Renshaw's voice. "I want you to monitor their status."

"You got it, Boss," she replied.

* * *

><p>Once she was in the cockpit, Sharon occupied the space formerly taken by the co-pilot's seat. She called up the status of the two suits on the monitor, studying closely, obsessively flicking from one display to the other. The status lights were all green.<p>

"They also serve who only stand and wait," said Renshaw, observing Sharon's disquiet.

"What?" asked Sharon.

"John Milton," explained Renshaw, a little cryptically. "It is the curse of command – that you have to stand back and watch in safety, while you send another soul into harm's way."

"How do you handle it?" demanded Sharon, her nerves jangling. If she was the one going into action, she was as calm as. Sharon turned away from the monitor to look at the CO, who looked incredibly calm, hoping for some words of wisdom.

"I don't," replied Renshaw.

"Fuck," she murmured.

The Colonel nodded. "It's time. Execute."


	23. Chapter 23

"They're outside," said Sharon. There was a clear HUD view from the fisheye lens monitoring the airlock exterior.

"Good," replied Renshaw. "Are they secure?"

"Affirmative," confirmed Sharon, her voice tense.

"Initiating burn," commented Renshaw. A gentle pressure tried to force Sharon back against the bulkhead, but she had braced herself against the mounting bracket for the missing co-pilot's seat. The sun flared as it dropped below the horizon, darkness filling the cockpit. "Burn cutoff on my mark...Mark."

Sharon swallowed briefly. "Thirty seconds," she advised. The time hack crawled down, each second like an eternity.

Renshaw's finger hovered over the automated docking program abort, waiting. When the hack reached zero, a single tap cancelled the program. The orbital thrusters fired, halting the approach vector to dock at the starship._ "Venture Star_, this is Valkyrie Zero-Six," he advised, the drawl of a Texan accent cutting the airwave. He sounded just like the late pilot. "We have a little problem here."

"We read you, Zero-Six. What is the nature of your problem?" As the duty officer on the _Venture Star _replied, Sharon caught a glimpse of the two EVA suits burning to rendezvous. It was only a glimpse – they were running dark, and then they were gone. At least to the naked eye.

"Y'all got nothing to concern yourselves now," said Renshaw. "We've got a teeny abort code on the auto approach and docking program. It'll take a little while to recalibrate for a manual approach."

"Manual approach?" asked the duty officer. "You're showing all green here."

"Yeah. I tried tapping the console to reset, but the old bitch is cycling between auto and standby modes about every two seconds," replied Renshaw. "I'd rather not have it do that on final docking. I hear the roadside assist isn't too good out this way."

There was a slight pause. "Read you, Zero-Six," said the duty officer. Sharon could hear the smile on his face. "Have you paid your auto club subscription?"

"Dang, I turned the iron off and paid the alimony, but plumb forgot about the auto club," replied Renshaw. He reached up and popped the circuit breaker for one of the flight control computers.

"Hold on, Zero-Six," said the duty officer. "I see your problem. You have an FCC down. According to flight rules, that's an abort for an automated docking."

"I'm still go for a manual dock," said Renshaw. "Don't matter to me whether its home or first base, but I got some right prickly passengers here. They won't appreciate a go around, even if they do get some more frequent flyer miles." The cover story for this mission was for a face to face meeting of the two mission commanders.

"Roger, you have a go for manual dock," agreed the _Venture Star _duty officer. "What is the projected time of arrival, so we can put out the welcome mat?"

"Our prelim numbers will have us docking around about the time we cross over the terminator, _Venture Star_."

"That's fine work, Zero-Six."

Renshaw laughed, "That's 'cos I was doing orbital rendezvous afore your pappy ever saw your mommy's titties."

"You take care, Zero-Six. Contact us again on final approach, so we can turn the porch light on. _Venture Star_ out."

Renshaw canned the comms link, allowing Sharon to release the breath she had been holding. "They bought it?" she asked.

"I think so," replied Renshaw, all trace of a Texan accent disappeared. "Time to get busy now."

* * *

><p>The suits were right at the limit of detection for the Valkyrie's docking radar. Sharon monitored the separation data, watching the closure rate while Renshaw ran through the manual dock procedures. "Light that candle," she whispered, just before they started thrusting to match velocity with the <em>Venture Star<em>.

Two minutes later Sharon started breathing again. Both Na'dia and Tania were stationary relative to their target. It looked like they weren't going Dutchman today.

Then she lost them in the clutter from the _Venture Star._

"Are they there yet?" asked Renshaw.

"Yes," she replied. "They're there." Sharon had a mad impulse to giggle – it sounded like she was trying to reassure the Boss, as though he had lost a puppy. Renshaw heard the underlying tension in her voice, but made no reply. Instead, he placed his hand on the translation controller and throttle, and started thrusting towards their rendezvous. Why was astronaut-speak filled with double entendres? "Boss, have you ever done a manual approach and docking before?" Sharon had been curious about this minor question for some time.

"Only on the simulator," was the terse reply. "They usually don't let amateurs play with billion dollar pieces of equipment."

Sharon half-listened to the chatter between Renshaw and the _Venture Star_, all the while trying to pick up a visual on the EVA team. It wasn't until Venture Star achieved hard dock that she managed to catch sight of Na'dia and Tania emplacing shaped charges on one of the cryo modules. "They are behind schedule," she noted. Sharon lifted a pair of binoculars to her eyes. "Charges are laid on the other two modules – they haven't finished the third."

"Let me know when they are clear," replied Renshaw.

One of the figures turned to observe the shuttle and placed her helmet against the helmet of the other. A final charge was emplaced, and the two suits thrusted for the skeletal core of the _Venture Star_. Sharon swallowed nervously before she said, "Clear." Visions of flying debris smashing into the shuttle and crushing it like aluminium can beneath a foot flicked through her mind.

Renshaw said quietly, "Instigate."

Pinpricks of light flared over the ends of the three cryo modules. A few seconds later there was a rattle of small debris striking the shuttle. Suddenly, the ends of two of the modules tore apart, venting massive amounts of gas. Sharon saw right into one of the modules, the lighting flickering and arcing, before it went dark.

The _Venture Star_ crossed over the terminator, brilliant sunlight illuminating the starship, revealing a scene of devastation. The unmistakeable shapes of bodies drifted past the cockpit windows, and great gashes despoiled all three of the cryo modules – the final one had let go just as the _Venture Star_ crossed into daylight.

Sharon couldn't watch any more. There was too much death visible before her eyes, so she fled the cockpit and stormed up the docking tunnel into the core of the starship.

* * *

><p>"No! Don't open it, Yuri!" screamed Sharon. The pressure door leading forward was dogged shot, a strobing red light flashing on the bulkhead. "There's nothing but vacuum behind it." It looked like the demo job the two slits had done more damage than expected. "We need a suit to go there, if you don't want to suck a whole lot of nothing."<p>

"Thanks, Spoons," said Yuri. He looked more than a little shaken. "Too anxious – I haven't made a mistake like this since I was a fucking boot."

"You wait for Renshaw and the palulukan slit," she ordered. The plan was up shit creek, but loss of atmosphere had always been a possibility. There were still options, still objectives to be taken. "I'm going aft."

After all, the cunts detailed to take Propulsion had been slack about reporting back in.

* * *

><p>It took time to float down the starship core back to Propulsion. It was well over a click.<p>

Sharon didn't rush. She well remembered her microgravity combat training on the starship construction station at L5. An attempt to go too fast resulted in a cracked rib when she tried to occupy the same space as a rather rigid bulkhead. Of course, that had been in her human body. Avatar bones were much stronger, but there was no point in collecting an injury just for the sake of thirty seconds. It wasn't like there was some Hollywood bomb at the other end, a digital timer ticking down.

Besides, the hero always managed to cut the blue wire with one second to go, and if Sharon wasn't the fucking hero, she didn't know who was.

The rotten thing about that course was finishing the last two weeks with her ribs taped, every breath feeling like she was being stabbed with a pig-sticker. If she had let on about her injury, the fucking misogynist pig of an instructor would have failed her in an instant.

No way was Sharon going to walk away from that shitty course without her bloody MVC rating.

"That's odd," she murmured to herself. The final door to Propulsion was dogged shut. It was obvious it was the final door, as it was emblazoned with warnings in red and yellow, threatening drastically reduced lifespan if the correct safety precautions – including the wearing of dosimeters – beyond this point.

The door should have been open if the assault team had been running to plan. She murmured into her throat mike, "Fingers, report."

There was no answer.

A quick check of her pistol revealed that the magazine was full with one up the spout, and she had two spares. If Sharon needed more than that, she was fucked anyway. She swallowed once and eased the door handle down, and cautiously swung the door back.

"Fuck!" she swore softly. This pressure door made up half an airlock, a short tunnel leading to the next door. It wasn't like this on the starship plans. She tried to open the far door, but it was mechanically linked to the door behind her. Sharon had no option but to shut the door to safety and dog it tightly. She felt like a fucking rat in a shitty tight trap. No lucky long life for Sharon, so the future seemed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

It was now or never. Sharon's hand eased the door open.

Sharon gritted her teeth. The fate of the assault team was clear. Three Avatar bodies floated before her, trailing blood and totally blocking the sightlines to the rear of the compartment. She caught a brief glimpse of Fingers crouched behind some piece of engineering kit, face grimaced in pain.

The decision was easy. Fingers was occupying the only cover, so Sharon launched herself out of the tunnel towards one of the bodies.

"Kill it!" screamed a voice.

An assault rifle fired a three-round burst, each bullet striking the body Sharon held in front of her. The impact of the fire started them turning, exposing Sharon to fire. She had spotted the muzzle flash. It was an automatic reaction to aim her weapon and fire, speeding her rotation.

Unfortunately, her aim was good. The subsonic round tore through her opponent's unprotected throat. In his death throes, the tawtute's index finger tightened on the trigger, emptying the magazine. Bullets ripped from the assault rifle, randomly tearing through equipment and cable runs.

The main lighting flickered and went out, replaced by the ghostly green of the emergency lights.

Sharon thrust away from the corpse she was using for cover. Another human was scrabbling for the assault rifle. She shifted her aim, fired one, two, three shots, each one in the sniper's triangle. Head shots were all very well, but in microgravity it was better to go for the largest target.

There were no other living humans present in propulsion.

"Boss," she subvocalised into her throat mike. "Propulsion is secure. Three dead, one wounded."

"Copy Propulsion is secure," replied Renshaw. "Good work."

"Thanks," she replied. Sharon did not bother with any longer reply. She was too busy reversing her trajectory back to Fingers.

"Hi, Spoons," he said weakly. "You look fucking beautiful."

"You're as ugly as ever," she replied, checking his body quickly. His shirt was bloodstained front and back. Sharon holstered her pistol and used her knife to cut his uniform off. He had a through and through wound through his chest. "Are you hit anywhere else?"

Fingers shook his head. "A sucking chest wound is Eywa's way of telling you to slow down," he quipped, and then coughed. His mouth stained with bloody spittle, while air whistled through the wound.

"Shut up," ordered Sharon. If she didn't do something right now, the bugger could get a pneumothorax. She ripped open his field dressing kit, and struggled to tear the cover off a dressing. To get a good seal, Sharon used his shirt to wipe much of the blood from his chest, and slapped on the dressing. The seal was good – no mixture of air and blood was bubbling under the dressing. She spun Fingers around and repeated the action on his back.

"Thanks," he said, his voice a little stronger. Fingers was breathing easier now, but he still didn't look too happy.

"Don't mention it," she replied. Sharon swallowed involuntarily and felt her ears pop. That could only mean one thing. "The compartment is losing pressure. Can you make it through the airlock?"

Fingers nodded.

"Where is the patching kit?" she demanded. Sharon had no doubt that the dead skxawng had sprayed a few rounds through the skin of the starship. Every compartment in an RDA starship was equipped with a patching kit to cover micrometeorite holes. She just hoped the kit contained enough for twenty-plus six point two mike-mike holes. Otherwise she would be learning how to suck vacuum.

"On the bulkhead," said Fingers, pointing to a box behind her.

Sharon propelled him to the airlock door. "I'll shut it behind you," she said. "Remember to close the other one once you're through. I think they are interlocked. I won't be able to get out if you don't close it."

Fingers nodded. "I'll remember," he promised.

* * *

><p>Sharon ignored the chatter on the tac circuit. She had too much to do.<p>

Some joker had decided to put the complete guide to patching spacecraft into the patching kit. Unusually, it was old fashioned hardcopy rather than a tablet. No doubt some risk-averse bean counter had decided it was (a) cheaper and (b) independent of battery life. The only problem was it looked to be printed on five hundred-plus beta-cloth pages. By the time she finished reading it she would be either (a) dead of old age, (b) snap frozen, or (c) fully evolved to suck vacuum rather than air.

She yanked the gun-like piece of apparatus out of the kit. It looked much like the binary epoxy applicators she had trained on at L5 for this very purpose. It even had the same stupid looking pictographs on the side that explained how to use it. Sharon scanned it quickly. Yep, locate the leak, twist the end to break the seal, shove the end over the hole, clamp it and pull the trigger four times.

The only problem was going to be finding the holes. This was a fucking big compartment, and six point two mike-mike holes weren't exactly easy to see in this light. That was why the epoxy gun had a flashlight attachment. There was even a pressure gauge on the damn thing.

Perhaps ginger beers weren't such a waste of O-two after all.

It took Sharon a little over five minutes to find and seal the first hole. It was only by tracking the droplets of blood that she managed to locate it.

After her ears popped twice, Sharon glanced at the pressure gauge. At the current loss rate, she only had enough air for about forty minutes. She would have to work faster.

The next few didn't take quite so long. Each hole was placed along a beautiful curve that described the death of the skxawng with the gun. Sharon could not help but smile when she saw how beautiful it was. She felt so happy that she began to sing a little song about green bottles, trying not to laugh between verses.

"Where is the next green bottle?" she sang, forgetting how many green bottles she had dropped off the wall. It was easier to breathe if Sharon sang.

"Hello, hole," she said, moving on to the next one. How many green bottle holes had she filled? "I have to fill you up," Sharon giggled. A voice was yammering in her ear. "Go away!" she sang. "I'm busy, busy as a bee!"

One, two, three, four, pulling the trigger gently but firmly, just like Sharon pulled on Alìmtaw's beautiful one-eyed snake, with long smooth strokes. Sharon loved the feel of Alìmtaw in her hands. She blinked. Was Sharon looking down a long grey tube? "I'm so bloody tired," she whispered. "One more, and then I'll go to fucking sleep."

She drifted along to the next hole, struggling to focus. With difficulty, she clamped the applicator over the hole. "Almost done," she murmured. One, two, three...

The room faded away, and then Sharon was gone.


	24. Chapter 24

"SPOONS! Wake up!"

Everything hurt. Sharon wanted to stay deep in the world of gonking, but some cunt was shouting at her, and shaking her shoulders.

"Fuck off," she snarled. At least it wasn't so bloody cold. Suddenly, she felt something entirely different. Something Sharon hadn't felt since her last bender in the Cross, before she started Avatar training.

"She's going to throw," advised a voice calmly. A hand removed her exo-pack, just before Sharon heaved her guts out.

"Fuck," she repeated, trying to spit out the foul taste without aggravating her pounding head. She was offered a bulb of fluid that tasted sickly sweet. Bulb? Sharon was still in microgravity, aboard one of the starships. She swilled the disgusting fluid around her mouth – it tasted only marginally better than vomit - and forced it out of her mouth with a push of her tongue. "Pah! That's horrible," she observed, opening her eyes to see a wobbling globe of blackish fluid floating in front of her face.

"I can see Coke will never take off with the Na'vi," replied a grinning Yuri, mopping up the loathsome liquid with a piece of uniform cloth, obviously torn from the body of a tawtute. "It was the only thing I could find."

"What happened?" she demanded, as Yuri gently wiped her face and replaced her exo-pack. "Is Fingers ok?"

Renshaw's voice said, "He's stable. As long as his ducks stay aligned, he should live."

Sharon turned her head to see the CO. "Hi, Boss," she said. "Is it tea and medals time?" Renshaw had a puzzled expression on his face, so she added in explanation, "Did we win?"

"It was a close-run thing," he said. "They were about to launch a ripple of Thor's Hammers at Hell's Gate and the _Dog Star _when we took the bridge."

"Any prisoners?" she asked curiously. "What was the butcher's bill?"

Renshaw shook his head. "Three dead, two wounded," he replied. It seemed he was not going to enumerate the human casualties.

"Who is the other wounded?" she asked curiously.

"You are," replied Renshaw, much to her surprise. Sharon really didn't feel that bad. Well, perhaps she did. "An almost lethal case of hypoxia counts as wounded in my book. You're a very lucky young woman. By rights you should be dead. What the fuck were you thinking?"

"The onset of euphoria was quicker than I expected," she said. "I was using the numbers for human metabolisms rather than Na'vi – there isn't any data for comparison. By the time I should have gotten out, I didn't give a flying fuck. It just felt too bloody good."

"You sealed all twenty-eight bullet holes, before Tania pulled you out," interrupted Yuri. "We couldn't send anyone else in because there isn't enough air left on this bird to waste. That, and we were worried that a sudden repressurisation might give have torn a hole in the skin, and then we all would have been fucked."

"Fair enough," she replied. Sharon would have done exactly the same in his place. "What now?"

"Easy," replied Renshaw. "You rest, while everyone else cleans up. Once we slave the _Venture Star's _controls for remote operation, we'll transfer back to the _Dog Star_. Life support on this bird is well and truly fucked. It will only support us for about two weeks, and then it's over."

That plan was fine by her.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, one other person was wounded. Na'dia had copped a long spiralling burn along her right arm from a very lucky – at least from her perspective – shot from a tawtute. Doubtless the late human would not have agreed as to his luck. Together with a mild case of hypoxia – it seemed to be catching – she was the only other casualty from the assault party.<p>

Na'dia had fared better from her exposure to insufficient atmosphere than Sharon had. Not that this little fact was that surprising. There was a slight difference between thirty seconds of vacuum versus around thirty minutes of near vacuum.

The side-effects of hypoxia were no fun at all - Sharon felt as weak as piss. She wouldn't have been able to crack a fat even if she had been wrapped in multiple layers of excitable pams. Instead, she floated in the bliss of microgravity, demanding that she be waited on hand and foot. And tail. It wasn't too bad, even if she had to share a compartment with Fingers.

The only problem was that Renshaw got a been in his bonnet about the effects of wounds healing in microgravity on Na'vi, so both Sharon and Fingers got moved into the crew hab module and subjected to spin up, which made Sharon throw up again. Of course, no bedding was long enough for the Avatars, so that had to make do with sleeping on the floor of the mess deck. Still, it could have been worse – it was only a tenth of a gravity, rather than the full point eight of a g of the Pandoran surface.

Though it didn't stop Sharon from complaining.

Fingers wasn't much of a conversationalist either. He spent most of the time zonked out on pain killers or gonking his way through low Pandoran orbit - which added to Sharon's frustration. Let alone having to keep her exo-pack on just because the Boss didn't want to damage what was left of the life-support system.

She was too tired to do anything, but couldn't sleep. Instead, she was just bored.

Sharon was so bored that after one day almost everyone avoided entering the mess deck, if they possibly could.

Yuri tried to help. The darling brought her a data tablet so she could watch five year old holovid soaps.

Two minutes later, Sharon handed the tablet back. "Thanks for the thought, Yuri," she said, and grimaced. The faces of the actors just looked...wrong. She couldn't generate any enthusiasm for looking at short, tail-less, pink and brown aliens. Sharon had no emotional connection to them, or their stories.

"You too," he commented, and shrugged. It seemed he felt exactly the same.

"I want to go home," she said, her eyes tearing up a little.

"The Ikran People?" he asked.

Sharon nodded. "Did you think I meant Earth?" she asked curiously.

Yuri chuckled, "No, Spoons. Not after this." There was an uncomfortable silence, which he filled by telling her, "There is an argument happening at the moment. You know Na'dia is cleaning up the tawtute bodies by putting them into decaying orbits, so they burn up on re-entry."

"I didn't know," she said. This little bit of news sounded interesting. "Go ahead."

"A couple of the guys have suggested she do the same for the guys who bought it," he said. "The Boss hasn't decided what should be done with them."

"Munge Ren'zhore ne oe," she ordered imperiously. She did not realise that she had changed languages.

"Srane, Tsahik," he replied. Yuri understood the reason for the sudden switch.

* * *

><p>"What is it, Sharon?" asked Renshaw. He looked vaguely annoyed at being dragged away from his work, but still knelt facing Sharon, despite the difficulty holding that position in the low gravity.<p>

"You have not decided how we should honour our three dead," said Sharon. For this discussion, she had thought it best that she was not recumbent. How could Ren'zhore respect her words, if she was not upright? Instead of lying down on an invalid, Sharon sat cross-legged, as though she was counselling one of the Ikranaru that had come to her for guidance. "Some have suggested that honour would accrue if they were to be placed into orbit, and allowed to burn up in re-entry."

"And?" asked Renshaw. He had the distinct feeling – no, knowledge – that the decision was about to be made for him.

Sharon nodded in satisfaction. It was good that he was listening to her words. For a former tawtute, he had come a long way in a short time. It did not seem strange to her that she had made the same journey not that long before him. "It is not right that our dead should be so far from Eywa, and their spirits left to wander the void. They will be carried down from orbit in the Valkyrie, and placed in the embrace of Eywa, as all our dead should be."

"It will be almost two weeks before we leave the _Venture Star_," he said, "And another two days after that before we leave orbit. The refrigeration unit on this ship is broken. Their bodies will..."

"Rot," completed Sharon, her half-smile crooked on her face. The solution was obvious to her, just as it should be to Renshaw. Was he testing her? "There are compartments on this ship that can be vented to space. The cold of the void will ensure that the dead will stay complete, until we return to the surface."

"Very well, Tsahik," said Renshaw. "In this you speak as the voice of Eywa. Your will shall be done."

As Renshaw rose carefully, trying not to strike his head on the ceiling, Sharon said, "The Uniltìranyu are fortunate in their olo'eyktan, in that he knows both when to listen, and when to act. He will even listen to the Tsahik of a clan not his own on matters of importance, and consider her words carefully."

The former commander of the Hell's Gate garrison looked surprised at the compliment. "You are kind, Tsahik," he replied, and then hesitated, before speaking again. "I wish that you had stayed at Hell's Gate," he said wistfully. "We have no Tsahik, no-one to interpret the will of Eywa."

Sharon laughed merrily. "My heart is given to the Ikranaru, and to the sea," she replied. "Besides, I do not think you would have enjoyed being my mate." She laughed even more when his mouth fell open in surprise, or more likely shock. "It is customary among many clans for the Tsahik to mate with the olo'eyktan. I suspect Eywa has plans for Amala that have yet to be revealed to you both."

Renshaw made a gesture of acknowledgement of her words, and beat a hasty retreat, passing by Tania without a word. Sharon had not noticed her arrive – she had been too focused on her objective to take heed of anything else.

"You sound very different when you speak as Tsahik," noted Tania, walking carefully to her and occupying the space that Renshaw had just left. Perambulation in a tenth of a g was tricky. "It doesn't matter whether you speak in Na'vi or English – your words are always serious, and thoughtful – not like you at all."

"I suppose you are going to say I am usually a ratbag," replied Sharon, a wave of tiredness washing over her. She leaned back against the bulkhead, relieved that the issue of the disposition of the dead was over. "Or perhaps as mad as cut snakes would be a better label."

"I think I know what you mean," replied Tania, a serious expression replacing her smile. "But I need to speak to you as Tsahik of the Ikranaru, not as Sharon the chook strangler."

"Oh," said Sharon, wondering where this was going. She sat up a little straighter.

"You remember what we spoke of, after we took the _Dog Star_," stated Tania.

"Srane," agreed Sharon. "I remember." She paused in silence for some time before asking, "You truly wish to do this? There will be no going back, once you have committed."

"It is my path," replied Tania. "Eywa has shown it to me." She took a long pipe that was slung from a strap from one shoulder and gave it to Sharon. "I need you to..." Tania bit her lip.

Sharon examined the blow-pipe carefully, before raising her gaze back to Tania's face. "Why me?" she asked.

Tania said, "Na'dia respects you, both as warrior, and as Tsahik. She will accept this act from you, when she would not from any other, even from me."

"I hope you're right," said Sharon wryly. "I will be in a world of pain if not."

"You will see," replied Tania.

Sharon chuckled. Somehow, this development did not seem so odd. Her entire life had been a continuous series of calamitous events, tumbling from one disaster to another, and avoiding the consequences by the skin of teeth. Why should this be any different? "You will have to tell Renshaw," she advised Tania. "It will be too difficult to explain otherwise."

The woman tilted her head and considered Sharon's words. "Very well," she agreed. "Him and no other."

"Done," replied Sharon.

* * *

><p>They were on board the <em>Venture Star<em> for another ten days, the life support barely managing to hold out long enough to execute the remainder of the plan. Renshaw had flown dozens of shuttle flights, transferring almost all of the cargo down to the surface. He looked absolutely exhausted. The few hackers on the assault team looked almost as tired, after they had finished making the modifications to the starship controls.

But now they were done, and the _Dog Star_ was ready as well.

Sharon was on the bridge, watching Na'dia and Tania gaze out the large observation window pointing directly down at Pandora. "Hurry up," she said to them. "It is past time to go."

"Self will miss this," said Na'dia to Tania, apparently ignoring Sharon's words.

Tania smiled, and said, "So will I." She paused before commenting, "Earth used to look like this once, if you believe the old documentaries, but now it is all brown or grey."

Na'dia reached for Tania's hand, and squeezed it gently. "Self will miss Tania also."

"I know," replied Tania, squeezing back. Her face gave a curious twitch combined with a wink. That was the signal.

Sharon lifted the blowpipe to her lips after taking a deep breath, aimed it at the rather generous target, and gave a sudden, sharp blow. The dart shot out of the blowpipe, embedding itself deep in one of Na'dia's well-rounded buttocks.

Na'dia's free hand fell to pluck out the dart out of her ass. As Sharon lowered the blowpipe, the drugged woman turned dreamily towards her and asked, "Why?

Tania pulled the limp palulukan woman into an embrace and hugged her tight. "I couldn't let you do it," she said. "I couldn't let you leave Tat'yana, and Ninat, and Txep'ean. I See how much you love them, and how they love you, even as a palulukan. It is not fair to sacrifice their happiness and love as well as your own."

"But..." slurred Na'dia, unbidden tears running down her face.

"Pandora was too late for me," said Tania sadly. "Almost three decades too late. I died inside many years ago, scarred and limbless in my wheelchair. I hoped that I could live again as a Uniltìranyu, and thought for a while that I could, especially after you captured me and made me Omaticaya. I came to see that life as a Na'vi was not my path, and then Eywa showed me the way. That was why there was no-one for me amongst the Na'vi."

Sharon floated towards the embracing pair, and waited while Tania kissed her friend on the lips. "I'll take care of her," said Sharon, as she took the semi-conscious woman from Tania.

"Irayo," said Tania.

Somehow, as Sharon tugged her burden towards the exit, Na'dia managed to murmur, "Eywa ngahu."

Tania smiled, and returned the farewell. "Eywa ngahu."

Sharon hesitated before she left the bridge and said, "Nga nì'ul to tsteu. Kìyevame ulte Eywa ngahu."

The woman who was remaining behind gave no reply, instead turning back to the window to see the world beneath her.

* * *

><p>Renshaw was waiting at the docking station as Sharon arrived with her comatose burden. "You're going through with this," he stated, raising an eyebrow at her.<p>

Sharon nodded. "It is what Tania wanted."

He shook his head, and then gestured for her to go down the docking tunnel to the waiting Valkyrie. "You're the last," he said. "You'd better get down there."

"No worries, Boss," replied Sharon in her broadest Australian accent, forcing a smile onto her face she did not feel.

Wisely, Renshaw did not say anything more. He just followed her, taking care to firmly close and dog each of the pressure doors in the docking tunnel behind them.

No words were spoken on the flight down to the surface.


	25. Chapter 25

It was good to have her feet on the ground, thought Sharon. Even if it was only tarmac, and crowded at that. Three Valkyrie shuttles took up a lot of space on the flightline.

There had been some heated discussion whether to leave one or two in orbit, where the shuttles were not subject to the vagaries of weather. The clinching argument was that they were not designed for extended stays in orbit, being dependent on external power sources to keep their systems alive for any longer than a couple of weeks.

A year or so in orbit would have left them as very expensive dead pieces of space junk.

The lack of pilots other than Renshaw meant that two of the shuttles had to be landed in full automated mode. The first landing had gone well enough, but the second was a bit more exciting. There had been one or two moments when it looked like it would end up as rubble in the bottom of a shallow crater.

She carried Na'dia's limp torso in her arms to the two waiting Omaticaya.

"Oel ngati kameie," said the serious looking male. Sharon remembered his name was Txep'ean. Without a word she transferred the palulukan woman to his arms. He did not look that surprised to see his mate returned in a comatose state.

"She will be angry when she wakes," said Sharon, and smiled. A true rant from one such as Na'dia was an awe-inspiring sight that she would be glad not to witness.

"Na'dia is quick to anger, and even quicker to forgive," replied Ninat. She slid her arm around Txep'ean's waist, looking down at Na'dia's peaceful face with affection.

"The uniltìranyu Tania did not return with you," stated Txep'ean.

"No," answered Sharon, not totally suppressing an urge to look up into the sky. "She has chosen a different path, the path that Na'dia would have taken."

Ninat nodded. "From your face, it is not a path that you would choose."

Sharon shook her head. "I could not...although I cleared the way."

Txep'ean observed, "This has come at some cost to your spirit."

A strong sense of discomfort had settled on Sharon. She did not wish to respond to such insightful comments – not here, not now, when it was so close. "You must excuse me," she said. "I must return to my people."

Sharon almost ran back to the flightline, where Samson Two-One was waiting to take her away from this place. The blades were already spinning when she swung into the cargo area.

Soon she would really be home.

* * *

><p>"Kim, where are we going?" asked Sharon, fiddling with her headset. The track Samson Two-One was taking was not the way to the place of the Ikranaru.<p>

"The beach," replied the pilot.

The very pregnant door-gunner otherwise known as Linda added, "We decided it was the best place for you right now."

"Oh," said Sharon. It looked like she wasn't going to get a look in to this decision. She idly rubbed at her face while she tried to think of a snappy response. Sharon was damn happy that she no longer had to wear an exo-pack. She had grown sick of it digging into her face."Fair enough."

* * *

><p>The sun was sinking below the horizon when Samson Two-One landed at her cove.<p>

Alìmtaw was waiting for her.

Sabine and Maweypay were there also, and the uniltìranyu mates of Kim and Linda, but she only had eyes for Alìmtaw.

Sharon swung out of the Samson, feeling the warmth of the sand between her toes. She sighed, finally acknowledging weeks of unrelenting tension, and walked slowly to her mate.

"Kaltxì," he said, without touching her. It seemed he could sense her fragility.

She took his hand, and led him silently to the top of the highest dune, one that was almost as high as the cliffs that surrounded the cove. Sharon knelt facing west, her back to the sea. "Watch," she said.

The veil of night spread rapidly across the sky, lit by the strange blue glow of Polyphemus. That was one of the few things Sharon missed of Earth – the splash of stars across a clear night sky, far from the lights of any city. She pointed to two dim lights. "The starships are there."

"You have defeated the tawtute?" he asked. "Are the Na'vi safe?"

"Wait," she asked.

The closer of the faint lights suddenly flared brilliantly, brighter than the sun. Two great jets of glowing gas streamed behind it, as the anti-matter engines of the _Venture Star_ began thrusting it out of orbit. The starship accelerated quickly, passing overhead and disappearing over the horizon. Fifteen minutes later, the _Dog Star_ started its engines, joining its sister-ship on the return flight to Earth.

Once it was gone, Alìmtaw marvelled, "That was truly beautiful. It is difficult to believe that such a wonderful thing could be made, even by the tawtute."

Sharon sighed. Her mate did not understand. Not yet. "We have done a terrible thing," she said, not taking her eyes from the sky.

"Terrible? How?" asked Alìmtaw. "You stopped the tawtute from attacking us, in honourable battle high above the world. How could this be a terrible thing?"

"Stopping them here and now was not enough," she said. "Even though their world is dying, the tawtute would keep coming and coming, just as Zhake'soolly said - like a rain that never ends. In the end they would overwhelm the Na'vi, even against all the might of Eywa."

"Instead, we have destroyed them," said Sharon. She smiled bitterly. "This is not something that the Na'vi could do, even if they knew how. Unlike the tawtute, the Na'vi love life and all living things. Only those that carry the spirits of tawtute could destroy an entire world, destroy all its people. That is why Eywa welcomed the Uniltìranyu and turned us against our kin, for we could do what she and hers could not."

She turned her head to take in Alìmtaw's expression of disbelief. He could not conceive how an entire world could be destroyed. So she told him, told him how the two starships would fly across the void. The _Venture Star_ would strike the Moon at seven tenths the speed of light, shattering it like an arrow piercing a ripe utu'mauti fruit.

But the _Dog Star_ would be different. It would enter the atmosphere of the Earth like a pillar of fire, penetrating deep below the crust. Superheated shock waves would circle the globe, incinerating all life and sweeping away the cities of Man, while a great fountain of molten rock would rise above the atmosphere, destroying the orbital infrastructure and smashing back onto the surface of the Earth, all across the world. Volcanoes and earthquakes would wrack the continents and islands, and great tsunami waves smash against what was left of the coastlines.

Finally, fragments of the broken Moon would smash into the ruined Earth, destroying what little would survive the impact of the _Dog Star_.

"This will happen a little less than five years from now," she said. "One of us, the Uniltìranyu woman named Tania, went with the starships to make sure that this will happen, though it will cost her life."

"A tawtute named Oppenheimer, the one who first released the fires of the Sun on the Earth, he said something when he saw what he had done. 'Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.'" Sharon looked at her hands, the hands that should be soaked in blood, hands that could never be made clean. "I understand now what he meant, for I too have destroyed a world – the world of my birth."

There were several minutes of silence while Alìmtaw tried to comprehend what he had just been told. Eventually, he asked slowly, "Why did you not tell anyone of this, before it was done?"

"Because you would have stopped us from ending the tawtute, ensuring the end of the Na'vi and the death of Eywa," was her answer. "It was better that you did not know, so that you do not carry the guilt." She sighed once, adding, "I understand if you no longer wish to have me as mate. I am no longer worthy of you – my spirit is too stained with blood to ever be clean again."

Sharon stood up suddenly, and took one step away. She did not expect to find herself falling to the ground, about to cop a duneful of sand in her face.

She twisted as she fell, breaking the hold Alìmtaw had on her ankle, to no avail. He was on her in an instant, grappling for position.

Oh, Sharon struggled to free herself with all her strength, spitting and snarling, but she used none of her guile and fighting skills. Her heart was not really in this battle – it was one she wanted to lose. Within thirty seconds she found herself pinned to the ground by Alìmtaw's greater weight and strength. She glared up at his serious face, demanding, "Well?"

"I have not given you leave to go," he said sternly.

Now she really began to fight.

"Wait!" shouted Alìmtaw, desperately trying to hang on to what felt like a palulukan trying to spill his guts from his belly. "I love you! I don't want you to leave!"

Suddenly Sharon was still. "What did you say?" she asked softly. Alìmtaw had never told her this before, not in words. Oh, she knew that he did, but like any female she wanted to hear from his own mouth.

"I don't want you to leave," he repeated, cautiously, wondering where the wild beast had gone.

"No, before that," she demanded.

"Um, I love you?" he asked.

"Are you asking if that is what I want to know, or if you want me to confirm the fact that you love me because you're not sure?" queried Sharon.

"Yes," he said firmly. "I mean, if that is what you want to know."

Sharon's lips curved upwards slightly, and she demanded, "Tell me again."

"I love you," he repeated firmly.

"You can do better than that," she said encouragingly. "Tell me without words."

Alìmtaw released one of her wrists, took his queue in his hand and offered the end to her, the fine pink tendrils curling and twisting in expectation. When she joined her own queue to his in tsahaylu, the breath rushed out of her body as she felt the enormity of his love impact her to the very depth of her being.

This was what Sharon wanted to know.

* * *

><p>Afterwards, Sharon was curled into Alìmtaw's side, resting her head on his broad chest. There was still a core of sadness and guilt inside her, but Sharon thought over time it would become less. That realisation did not stop a tear from trickling down her cheek onto her mate's chest.<p>

"Why are you still sad?" he asked.

Sharon replied, "I mourn for my grandfather. He will die when the starships reach 'Rrta."

"This is the man called Zhong," stated Alìmtaw. "The one of whom you have told me many stories."

"Yes," she agreed sadly.

"The man who determined that the world of the tawtute was dying, and sent you to command Ren'zhore to his task to save the Na'vi," said Alìmtaw.

"Um, yes," she replied.

"The man who hid Kalinkey te Pesuholpxaype Lissa'ite - the first dreamwalker - from the tawtute," he added.

"Yes," she said wonderingly.

"The man who chose Ren'zhore to lead the Uniltìranyu," said Alìmtaw, a little unnecessarily.

"Ok, ok," she replied snippily. "You don't have to hit me over the head with this. I get it."

"I wanted to be sure I had the right grandfather," chuckled Alìmtaw.

There was only one reply Sharon could give Alìmtaw.

A gentle bite.

* * *

><p>The monitor showed the Earth dwindling as the <em>ISV White Star<em> tacked towards Venus, ready for the gravity assist to send it plunging down from the ecliptic towards Alpha Centauri A. The software driving the huge display screen edited out the brilliant blue of the giant laser arrays at L4 and L5 powering the light sail.

"You know we will probably be the last people who ever see this," commented Doctor Phred Palmer.

Zhong nodded. "The RDA Board made that very obvious to me when they ordered all the remaining starships to be cannibalised to build battleships to bombard Pandora," he replied to his friend. "They were very scathing regarding my performance, especially after the _Venture Star_ got off a superluminal message that they were under attack by Na'vi. I do not blame the Board for suspending talks on my contract renewal."

"Are you sure the first battleship won't be finished before the collapse of the agricultural sector?" asked Phred.

"Yes," he said firmly. "The predictive modelling is rock solid. The _White Star_ will be the last starship launched by humanity."

Phred commented, "It was a nice touch the way you organised your exit as CEO."

"Yes," agreed Zhong. "I thought directing my choice as assassin to the Chief Financial Officer's attention was quite effective. It was a pleasure doing business with her – a true professional." He lifted his right hand up, studying the intricate dark blue markings that decorated the pale blue skin on the back of his hand. It would take a little time getting used to his new body, let alone the tail, but then he had all the time in the world. "Seeing my dead body with a bullet through the brain will be viewed by the RDA Board as sufficient evidence of my 'retirement' not to enquire further. I'm afraid as a group they are not particularly imaginative, despite their undoubted individual talents. Now, if they were Chinese..."

While Phred made a subtle adjustment to his exo-pack - it was irritating his queue - he noticed the impatient technician tapping his foot out of the corner of his eye. "I think it's time to cool down for cryo."

Zhong nodded. It wouldn't do to irritate the help.

He wanted to make sure he survived to enjoy his retirement on Pandora.

A very long, happy and fruitful retirement.


	26. Chapter 26

"Fucking shit piece of kit!" yelled Zharr'n, sucking her bleeding thumb and glaring at the stone scraper she had been using to shape the rail of her next surfboard. Somehow, swearing in 'Ìnglìsì was much more satisfying than Na'vi. She reached for a scrap of cloth she had used for wiping excess lacquer away and twisted it around the offending digit to stop the flow of blood.

The only problem with cursing in 'Ìnglìsì was that the younger members of the clan intending to go study with the Uniltìranyu would hover outside her work place in the hope of hearing her cut loose. When she managed to pin one of them down as to why she did it, the little bitch had replied that she wanted to understand how to speak 'Ìnglìsì naturally, like the Tsahik did and not one of the Uniltìranyu scientists, who all sounded as though they had a spear rammed up their collective asses. The slit had told her that the rhythm of the Tsahik's 'Ìnglìsì was almost lyrical, very like the phrasing of many Na'vi songs.

Zharr'n had hardly known what to say to that little sally.

"What is the fuss about?" asked a familiar voice, the 'Ìnglìsì flavoured with a strong German accent.

"Kaltxì, Tsa'peen," replied Zharr'n, whipping her injured hand behind her back.

The healer's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "You've cut yourself again," she stated. "Let me have a look."

Reluctantly, Zharr'n produced her right hand, feeling the waves of disapproval emanate from her sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng. Tsa'peen clucked as she removed the dirty rag, and examined the cut closely. "How many times have I told you to wash any cut straight away, instead of grabbing any putrid scrap of cloth as a bandage?" she scolded. "Are you trying to lose the use of your hand?"

"I was going to..." Zharr'n's voice trailed away. There was no winning against Tsa'peen over matters of healing.

Tsa'peen rummaged in her shoulder bag, removing a small pottery crock that she used in treating the minor injuries of the clan's children. She slipped off the wax top, dipped one finger into it and spread the white lotion over Zharr'n's offending thumb.

"Ow!" complained Zharr'n, as the cold astringent burned into the ragged cut. "That stings."

"Softy," smiled Tsa'peen. She held the cut together while the lotion hardened and closed the wound.

Zharr'n asked, "Why are you here? I thought you were going to be collecting some berries or something, and you would be away all afternoon."

"I finished early," advised the healer calmly. "I thought I would remind you that tonight our tsumuke'awsiteng will be celebrating Uniluke, and you need to allow enough time to get ready before we leave. You know how you lose track of time when you are shaping a new board."

"I know, I know," grumped the Tsahik of the Ikranaru. This had been a frequent topic of conversation over the last five years. Unfortunately, her sister was one hundred and ten percent correct, and both of them knew it.

Strangely, Tsa'peen hesitated slightly. "There is something else," she said. "You have visitors, two of the Uniltìranyu who arrived on the _White Star_."

Zharr'n's whole demeanour went cold. It had been six months since superluminal communications from the Earth had fallen silent, the incessant demands and threats of the RDA finally ceasing. That same night, she had dreamt the terrible end of the tawtute, and knew it to be a true dreaming. Zharr'n did not wish to be reminded of her part in the end of her birth world, and had actively avoided meeting any of the newcomers, although she visited the Special Forces weenies from time to time. It was fun to run a simulation or two in the playhouse too, if only for old time's sake.

It wasn't like they had to assault any more of the starships again. The threat of the Valkyrie shuttles armed with Thor's Hammers had been sufficient to get them to surrender – at least after the first starship arrived. The antimatter containment vessel blowing up rivalled the sun in the sky, if only for thirty seconds.

At least there would be no more coming, not after the _White Star_. It was the very last human starship. It was bad enough that she could look up in the night sky and see them in orbit.

Ren'zhore was welcome to them.

Tsa'peen interrupted her train of thought, "I know what you are thinking, but trust me. You really want to meet with them."

* * *

><p>Like all new-landed Uniltìranyu, the two – male and female – that entered her work space were young, barely come into adulthood.<p>

Zharr'n looked first at the woman. She was very beautiful, even more so than the famed mate of the Toruk Makto, Neytiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite – despite her possession of the large hands and feet of a dreamwalker. Zharr'n had become used to seeing true-born Na'vi – there were only a few uniltìranyu amongst the Ikranaru, so the five-digited hands and feet of a uniltìranyu looked a little odd to her, despite her own possession of them.

It was also clear that this woman was newly mated, and by the way she stood close to the male next to her, she had accepted this one's suit. Zharr'n automatically made the gesture of greeting, but without words. She was too focused on Seeing these people than speaking her thoughts.

Her attention switched to the male. His face looked familiar, as though Zharr'n had seen it before, which was impossible. He was a newly arrived uniltìranyu, so there was no possible way they could have previously met – not on Pandora. Suddenly she realised that she saw the feminine version of his features every time she looked into a still forest pool.

"You!" snarled Zharr'n, her fingers flexing as though she would like to feel his unprotected throat beneath them. Somehow, she suppressed an overwhelming urge to leap upon this male and beat the living shit out of him.

"Granddaughter," acknowledged Zhong calmly. "You look well."

"How?" she demanded harshly, when she realised it was a stupid question. This was Zhong standing before her – the puppet master himself. "Ignore that. It is bloody obvious how. More to the point, why the fuck are you here?"

Then something happened that she could never have predicted. Zhong's faced darkened slightly, the delicate wash of colour accompanied by an expression of embarrassment. "Ah," he said reluctantly. How could he be embarrassed? This was Zhong, her conniving, manipulative son-of-a-bitch grandfather. "Um."

It was then that the woman with him laughed, the ripple of her good humour like that of a forest stream. "We have come seeking your approval and blessing for our mating, Tsahik," she said, her eyes dancing with merriment. "Li did not wish to join with me in tsahaylu until he had asked his granddaughter for permission, but I could not wait any longer." She reached for Zhong's hand and gently squeezed it.

Zharr'n could not help herself. She laughed.

The master manipulator had been out-manipulated.

After the laughter died away, Zhong said, "There is something else I wish to ask of you, granddaughter."

Zharr'n ignored him. "You have not told me your name, or how you met my grandfather."

Zhong's mate replied, "My name is Amanita." She glanced at her partner and added, "I met Li when he hired me to kill him."

Zharr'n's eyebrows shot skyward, arching like the stone over Vitraya Ramunong.

Amanita shrugged. "I was an assassin. It was a very lucrative business."

"Not just any assassin," interrupted Zhong. "You were the best on Earth – you never missed a target. And you are discreet. That was why I hired you."

Now it was Amanita who blushed. "Thank you for saying so, Li." She leant over and kissed him on the cheek. "It was a pleasure killing you. Your plan was beautiful in its simplicity. Many of my clients required very complex arrangements to be prepared and enacted before they were satisfied."

"What?" demanded Zharr'n.

"Amanita put a bullet in my brain immediately after my personality transfer to this body," said Zhong. "I was a little surprised at the price, though."

His mate shrugged. "I was tired of my occupation, and there was nothing holding me on Earth," she said. "It was getting dirtier and unhappier every year." A wicked gleam entered her eyes as she added, "Besides, you are the most interesting man I ever met."

Zharr'n cocked her head at the strange pair. "It seems that you are well suited," she said. "It would be churlish to withhold my blessing."

Zhong looked relieved. "There was something else I wish to do, Sharon." The tawtute way of pronouncing her name grated a little on Zharr'n's ears. "I wish to apologise to you."

"Apologise?" queried Zharr'n. This was Zhong – he never apologised for anything.

"Apologise," he confirmed, "For not telling you the truth. As my granddaughter, you deserved it more than anyone."

"So what is the truth?" asked Zharr'n curiously.

"You carry the blood of true seeing," he stated. "Your mother drove me away, forbade me to tell you of the gift you bear, after I saw the signs. She refused to let me train you in the old ways, rejecting your gift as superstitious rubbish."

Zharr'n's eyes opened wide.

Zhong continued, "This is why your youth was troubled, why you could not sleep at night, why your art was so disturbing. You see the truth of things, without realising what you see." He drew in a deep breath, adding, "That is why you can interpret the will of Eywa, just as I have, ever since I first came to this world as Administrator."

There was an extended silence, the only sounds the quiet of the place of the Ikranaru, and the distant ever-present rumble of surf pounding at the cliffs.

"Well," said Zharr'n slowly, "That fucking explains an awful lot." Such as why she always knew where to shoot, and what was happening in battle around her. It mightn't have been particularly fair, but it had been useful. She chuckled to herself. Fuck fair.

If you weren't cheating, you weren't trying hard enough.

"You don't look that surprised," said Amanita.

"I have been Tsahik of the Ikran People for more than five years," replied Sharon. "It sort of provides you with a different perspective." She grinned suddenly. "I, too, have an apology to make."

Now Zhong looked surprised.

Zharr'n bent down to pick up a small shape wrapped in a blanket – it was autumn now, and the winds were cool – and cradled it in her arms. "I should not have delayed introducing you to your great-grandson, Li." Zharr'n peeled back the blanket shading her son's face and smiled at him, before she held him out for her grandfather to take.

Tears pricked at his eyes – this, the cold-blooded Zhong – as he took his six month old great-grandson, who stirred and lifted a tiny four-fingered hand towards Zhong's face.

"He is a handsome child," murmured Zhong, as his mate slid an arm around his waist and joined him in admiring the baby. "And very quiet."

"Li is very well-behaved," agreed Zharr'n, and sighed. "I just wish his sister Tulnìwin was as biddable."

"Sister?" asked Amanita and Zhong in chorus.

There was a loud crash of breaking pottery, followed by the sound of angry adult voices yelling, "Tulnìwin!"

Zharr'n flinched and confirmed, "Sister."

THE END

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>

For those of you who like long Avatar fanfic story cycles, I have written a series of tales regarding four extraordinary dreamwalker women. The first of these concern the story of Na'diakhudoshin, and should be read in the following order:

- New Steps  
>- En Pointe<br>- Oversway  
>- Last of the Uniltìranyu<p>

Then there is the story of Zha'nelle te Manitowabi Eywa'ite, who much to her surprise was permanently transfered into her Avatar body by accident - or was she? Her stories are:

- Overload  
>- Harmless<p>

Then there is the story of Sara te Pesuholpxaype Lissa'ite, who was the first human to become an Avatar.

- By The Numbers

In Sara's story we also find out how Na'diakhudoshin came to Pandora, so BTN overlaps with 'New Steps', 'En Pointe' and 'Overload'. We also encounter Colonel Zhong Li, and begin to learn of his part in the clash between Na'vi and tawtute.

And finally there is the tale of Sharon the incredibly foul-mouthed Avatar that you have (hopefully) just read.

- Sharing The Spirit

Chronologically, it comes after 'By The Numbers', and is parallel to 'Oversway'. It too includes Na'diakhudoshin and Colonel Zhong Li.

So now the entire story cycle is complete, and I can rest on my laurels.

Enjoy!


End file.
